THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OUR    HOMES; 


THEIR 


r  $  atfo  ftotiw,   up  aito 


EDITED  BT 

T.     S.     ARTHUR. 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN    W.    LOVELL    COMPANY 
150  WORTH  STREET,  CORNER  MISSION  PI,ACE 


Copyrighted  oy 
HUBBARD  BROTHERS. 

1888. 


PS 


PREFACE. 


IN  the  homes  of  a  country  its  good  and  evil 
influences  originate.  The  carefully  trained  and 
wisely  educated  child  grows  up  into  a  useful 
citizen,  and  works  in  his  allotted  sphere  for  the 
maintenance  of  general  order,  while  the  neglected 
child,  left  to  the  guidance  of  his  own  natural  evils, 
and  subjected  to  a  thousand  temptations  to  vice 
and  crime,  pushes  his  way  to  manhood,  a  tres 
passer  on  the  rights  of  others  and  a  scourge  upon, 
the  community.  Between  these  extremes  are  the 
gradations  of  good  and  evil  influences,  the  origins 
of  which  may  be  traced  back  to  the  homes  in 
which  young  life  first  received  its  impulses. 

A  truism  though  this  may  be,  its  repetition  can 

(*> 

1117272 


IT  PREFACE. 

hardly  be  made  too  often  ;  and  we  venture  it  here 
as  a  fitting  introduction  to  a  volume  the  object 
of  which  is  clearly  apparent  in  the  title.  Nor 
are  home-duties  and  home-influences  confined  to 
the  child  alone.  They  embrace  all  ages,  sexes, 
and  conditions  of  life — for  who  is  there  so  poor  ns 
not  to  have  a  home?  As  our  homes  are,  so  will 
we  in  a  great  measure  be ;  for  every  day  their 
impress  is  upon  us — every  day  we  feel  their 
beauty,  or  are  marred  by  their  disorder  and 
deformity — every  day  we  give  out  salutary  or 
perverting  influences,  as  well  as  receive  them. 

In  the  various  domestic  scenes  which  are  here 
presented,  as  well  as  in  the  grave  suggestions  and 
admonitions,  we  have  endeavoured  to  meet  all 
states  ;  and  furnish  incitement  to  good  deeds  in 
all  minds.  The  articles  which  make  up  the  book 
are  selected  from  a  wide  range  of  sources,  and  are 
written  by  almost  as  many  different  authors,  so 
that  home  and  its  relations  are  seen  from  varied 
positions,  in  the  hues  of  many  minds,  and  illus 
trated  by  the  light  of  many  experiences. 


CONTENTS. 


TOE  POOR  MAN'S  FAIRIES page  7 

THRKE  NEW  YEARS'  EVES 8 

THE  POWER  OF  KINDNESS 17 

"OuR  PET" .  21 

THANKSGIVINO 22 

HOME       .        . 27 

PRAISE  AMONG  THE  MARRIED 31 

THE  ART  OF  LIVING  EAST 37 

OH,  SING  TO  ME  SOFTLY,  MY  SISTER 41 

AN  EVENING  AT  HOME 42 

Two  YEARS  OLD      .        . 50 

A  THIMBLE-FULL  OF  ROMANCE 52 

MY  MOTHER 61 

Music  IN  FAMILIES \  64 

DO    YOU    KNOW   WHAT   YOUR    CHILDREN    READ?    ....  67 

THE  PROGRESS  or  GREEDINESS        ......  70 

THE  CRADLE  AWAY  UP  IN  THE  GARRET 80 

THE  HEAVENLY  SHEPHERD 84 

HE  NEVER  KEPT  HIS  WlFE  WAITING 86 

MY  OWN  FIRESIDE 89 

BE  PATIENT  WITH  THE  LITTLE  ONES 90 

IIJE  INVALID  WIFE           ........  92 

"THE  OLD  FOLKS" «5 

OBEDIENCE,  HOW  TAUGHT  TO  CHILDREN   .                 ...  98 

OUR  HOMES ...  102 

MRS.  WlNTERFORD  AND  HF.R  SERVANTS    ....  103 

(5) 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

THE  SPABE  BED-ROOM .  119 

DUTY  TO  PARENTS 1"2 

TUB  Two  PARTINGS 137 

"ONE  SET  APART" 145 

COUSIN  HETTIE  AND  HER  MOTHER-IN-LAW       ....  149 

MUSINGS  AND  MEMORIES 158 

FILIAL  PIETY 160 

GODFATHER  VIVIAN Ifi4 

THE  STOHY  OF  THE  BROKEN  FLOWER-POT        .        .        .        .171 
Is  WORK  DEGRADING?      .         .        .        .        .        .        •        .176 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD 181 

GIRLS'  HEADS  AGAINST  VEST  PATTERNS 190 

FAITHFUL  LOVE — A  FAMILY  PICTURE       .....  194 

THE  WAY  MY  MITHER  DID  IT 198 

DEATHS  OF  LITTLE  CHILDREN 202 

A  HOME  FOR  MY  MOTHER        .......  208 

A  CHILD'S  FIRST  LETTER        .        .        .        ,  .        .210 

LITTLE  MOLLY .  212 

FAREWELL  TO  A  SISTER 216 

HEART-SHADOWS 218 

THE  DUMB  CHILD 222 

A  SCENE  FROM  REAL  LIFE 225 

THE  FIRST  BABY 229 

HOME  LIGHTS  AND  HOME  SHADOWS          .....  233 

THE  WORTH  OF  A  DJLL 237 

FARMERS'  SONS 239 

THE  SPIRIT-MAIDEN  OF  RIIINELAND         .....  254 

PASSING  AWAY 260 

HINTS  FOR  HUSBANDS 263 

BUY  ONLY  WHAT  YOU  WANT 2C6 

AN  ANGEL  BY  THE  HEARTH      .......  269 

A  WORD  TO  YOUNG  HUSBANDS 270 

A  WIFE'S  SERMON  ;  OR  HINTS  TO  HUSBANDS    ....  274 

MY  WIFE 282 

A  TRUE  WIFE          .        .        . 283 

THE  DYING  CHILD   .                                  .                          •         ,  284 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  FAIRIES 

OH  1  mine  is  a  fairy  home, 

Though  'tis  humble  enough  and  poof  J 
There  are  prints  of  their  tiny  feet 

All  over  the  sanded  floor. 

There  are  sounds  as  of  elfin  glee, 
That  awake  me  at  peep  of  day ; 

There  are  wee  things  about  my  path, 
Ere  I  start  with  my  spade  away. 

Last  night,  ere  I  left  the  field, 
A  friend,  with  a  smiling  face, 

Came  to  ask  me  to  go  with  him 
To  some  merry  carousing  place. 

But  methought  that  the  while  he  talked 
I  was  touched  with  a  magic  wand — • 

With  a  sprightly  glimmer  of  starry  eye», 
And  a  look  I  can  ne'er  withstand. 


THREE  NEW  YEARS'  EVES. 

I  saw  one  sweet  anxious  face 

Await  in  the  porch  for  me, 
While  three  little  busy  elves 

Were  as  merry  as  elves  could  be 

I  saw  their  sweet  looks  of  love, 

And  my  heart  set  off  through  the  wood: 
So  I  bade  my  old  friend  good-night, 

And  followed  as  fast  as  I  could. 

One  fairy  had  made  my  tea, 

And  another  had  sliced  my  bread, 

And  a  tiny  one  had  clambered  my  knee 
For  a  kiss  ere  she  went  to  bed. 

And  Bess  is  the  fairy  queen, 
And  Harry,  and  Jane,  and  Kate 

Are  the  three  little  busy  elves 
Who  clustered  around  my  gate. 

Ch  !  mine  is  a  fairy  home, 

Though  men  say  there  are  fairies  no  more; 
Still  they  beckon  me  when  I  roam, 

And  peep  in  at  my  cottage  door. 


THREE  NEW  YEARS'  EVES. 

EVE  THE  FIRST. 

MR.  and  Mrs.  Andrews  had  been  married  only  a  few 
months,  and  this  was  their  first  New  Year's  Eve.  Theirs 
was  truly  a  marriage  of  affection,  and  congenial  tastes 
drew  closer  the  bonds  by  which  they  were  united.  Fa 
miliarity  with  the  best  authors  had  developed  the  mind 
of  Mr.  Andrews  intellectually ;  while  a  thorough  busi- 


THREE  NEW  YEARS'  EVES.  9 

ness  education  gave  him  a  confidence  in  his  own  ability 
to  make  his  way  in  the  world,  and  left  him  undisturbed 
about  the  future.  Mrs.  Andrews  had  been  carefully 
reared  by  a  widowed  mother,  now  removed  from  her  by 
death,  and  had  experienced  just  enough  of  the  trials  of 
Belt-dependence  to  feel  the  real  comforts  of  her  new  po 
sition. 

The  home  in  which  they  found  themselves  on  this,  the 
first  New  Year's  Eve  of  their  married  life,  suited,  in  all 
respects,  their  unambitious  tastes.  It  was  not  large, 
nor  elegantly  furnished,  in  the  modern  acceptation  of 
that  term ;  but  light  from  their  happy  hearts  was  re 
flected  on  every  object,  making  all  beautiful  in  their 
eyes. 

The  intellectual  tastes  of  Mr.  Andrews  had  led  him, 
in  the  arrangement  of  his  new  home,  to  set  apart  one 
small  room  as  a  library,  and  here  most  of  the  evenings 
of  the  young  couple  were  spent.  And  it  was  here  they 
had  shut  themselves  in  from  the  world  on  their  first  New 
Year's  Eve,  the  husband  reading  aloud  from  a  favourite 
book,  and  the  happy  young  wife  listening  to  his  manly 
voice,  and  treasuring  in  her  memory  the  sentiments  that 
fell  from  his  lips,  while  her  fingers  busied  themselves 
with  some  elegant  needlework. 

This  home  was  their  Paradise,  into  which  the  tempter 
had  not  yet  found  an  entrance.  This  was  their  world, 
beyond  which  thought  had  Hot  yet  strayed,  nor  imagina 
tion  pictured  a  scene  more  desirable.  Without  was  the 
desolation  of  winter ;  but  within,  the  sunshine  of  love 
made  all  bright  as  an  Arcadian  summer. 

Thus  it  was  on  their  first  New  YTear's  Eve. 


10  THREE  NEW  YEARS'  EVES. 

EVE  THE  SECOND. 

They  are  in  the  warm  library,  as  on  the  last 
Year's  Eve.  The  husband  is  sitting  with  a  book  before 
him,  but  not  leading,  though  thought  seems  busied  in 
its  pages.  Yet,  thought  is  far  away  from  that  quiet 
place,  busying  itself  with  some  scheme  of  worldly  gain. 
Since  last  year,  he  has  become  more  absorbed  in  trade, 
and  more  ambitious  to  rise  in  the  world ;  and,  as  a  con 
sequence,  less  interested  in  things  purely  intellectual. 
Many  times  since  that  first  happy  New  Year's  Eve,  has 
his  wife  gone  up  to  her  chamber,  after  parting  with  him 
for  the  day,  and  wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  And 
why  ?  He  had  forgotten  the  parting  kiss,  or  laid  his 
lips  to  hera  so  coldly,  that  the  touch  chilled,  instead  of 
warming  her  heart.  Oh  !  how  many  times  had  a  doubt 
of  his  love  come  over  her,  filling  her  soul  with  anguish  ! 

The  pleasant  library  has  another  inmate — a  babe 
sleeping  in  its  warm  cradle.  And  above  this  angel 
visitant,  the  mother  bends  and  feasts  her  eyes  upon  its 
beauty.  A  new  spring  of  joy  has  gushed  forth  in  her 
spirit — new  capacities  for  enjoyment  have  been  created 
therein. 

In  some  things,  this  eve  is  happier  than  the  last ;  yet 
over  the  brightness  of  the  scene  a  flitting  shadow  passea 
• — for  the  world  has  come  with  its  tempting  bribes,  and 
the  heart  of  Mr.  Andrews  is  not  proof  against  them. 

What  we  love,  comes  to  the  lips  in  speech.  Mr.  An- 
drews's  desire  to  achieve  large  success  in  business,  often 
led  him  to  speak  of  what  came  first  in  his  thoughts- 
Many  times  he  had  talked  with  his  wife  about  his  future, 
and  gradually  inspired  her  mind  with  something  of  the 


THREE  NEW  YEARS*  EVES.  11 

ambition  that  filled  his  own.  And  this  evening,  while 
the  babe  slumbered,  they  talked  of  the  coming  year, 
and  the  Urge  gains  that  were  expected  by  the  husband. 
More  than  once  it  was  on  his  lips  to  speak  of  a  better 
house,  and  more  elegant  home-surroundings ;  but  a  re 
collection  of  the  happy  hours  they  had  spent  in  the 
pleasant  room  they  occupied,  caused  him  to  repress  the 
words. 

EVE  THE  THIRD. 

Three  more  years  have  passed  with  their  joys  and 
sorrows. 

"We  are  on  the  last  hours  of  the  year,"  said  Mrs. 
Andrews,  with  a  shade  of  sadness  in  her  voice,  as  she 
took  up  some  needlework,  and  drew  near  the  light,  where 
her  husband  sat  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hands,  appa 
rently  reading.  She  had  just  returned  from  the  cham 
bers  above,  after  seeing  their  three  children  safely  in 
bed. 

"Yes,"  repeated  Mr.  Andrews,  gloomily;  "on  the 
last  hours  of  the  year." 

"  It  has  not  been  as  happy  a  year  as  were  the  previous 
ones,"  said  Mrs.  AndreAvs.  "  You  have  had  more  trou 
ble  in  business,  and,  somehow,  things  have  been  going 
wrong  at  home  all  the  time.  I  don't  know  what's  come 
over  me,  but  little  matters,  that  once  had  no  power  to 
disturb,  now  ruffle  my  feelings  sadly.  And,  then,  there's 
no  concealing  the  fact,  that  the  children  grow  more  un 
governable  every  day  ;  and  what  is  worse,  quarrel  dread 
fully  among  themselves." 

Mr.  Andrews  made  no  reply,  for  the  words  of  his  wife 
brought  uy»  from  the  past  images  of  home-scenes  singu- 


12  THREE  NEW  YEAUs'  EVES. 

larly  in  contrast  with  the  real  things  of  the  year  just 
sighing  out  the  last  hours  of  its  existence.  No ;  home 
Lad  not  been  as  happy  as  during  the  previous  years. 

And  why  was  this?     There  had  been  trouble  in  busi 
ness,  on  the  husband's  side,   and   he   had   not  always 
thrown  the  weight  of  care  from  his  spirit  at  day's  de 
cline,  and  brought  a  cheerful  heart  and  sunny  counte 
nance  home  with  him.     Yet  he  might  have  done  this ; 
for  the  trouble  was  such  as  ever  comes  with  increasing 
business,  and  should  have  found  a  compensation  in  in 
creasing  gains.     Had  he  wisely  left  the  day's  cares  and 
perplexities  at  his  place  of  business  when  the  doors  were 
shut  at  night,  and  let  home-affections,  and  a  loving  inte 
rest  in  the  treasured  ones  of  his  household,  find  their 
true  activity,  his  presence  would  have  been  like  warm 
sunshine,  dispelling  clouds  and  shadows.     But,  he  was 
setting  his  heart  upon  the  world,  more  and  more,  every 
day ;  and  as  worldly  interests  increased,  care  and  anxi 
ety  increased  also,  for  this  is  one  of  the  penalties  nearly 
all  men  pay  for  prosperity.     He  had  met  with  some  un.- 
expected  losses,  and  more  than  one  carefully  planned 
operation  had  entirely  failed.     This  was  the  trouble  in 
business  to  which  his  wife  referred ;  and  of  which  she 
had  felt  at  home  the  disturbing  influence.    On  her  part, 
the  trouble  had  also  been  experienced.     She,  too,  was 
Betting  her  heart  on  external  things,  and  hoping  to  find 
therein  rest  and  peace.     The  home  in  which,  during  the 
earlier  years  of  her  married  life,  she  had  enjoyed  so 
much  of  real  happiness,  grown  poor  and  mean  in  her 
eyes  under  the   stronger  light  of  opening  prosperity, 
must  needs  be  changed  for  one  larger  and  more  elegant. 


THREE   NEW   YEARS'   EVES.  18 

Richer  clothing,  new  and  costly  furniture,  and  many 
things  for  show  succeeded,  all  absorbing  her  thoughts, 
and  all  bringing  more  or  less  disturbing  influences. 

In  the  choice  of  a  new  house,  there  had  been  a  differ 
ence  of  opinion  between  Mrs.  Andrews  and  her  husband, 
resulting  in  much  unhappiness  on  both  sides.  Ho 
preferred  one  part  of  the  city,  and  she  another ;  he  a 
roomy,  but  not  very  costly  house ;  she  one  of  rather 
imposing  appearance,  more  ornamental  than  comfort* 
able.  Her  will  was  strongest,  and  her  wishes  prevailed, 
But,  in  the  conquest,  if  it  might  so  be  called,  she  lost 
more  than  she  gained ;  for  she  lost  a  portion  of  her  hus 
band's  affection.  And  her  heart's  quick  instincts  were 
not  long  in  discovering  the  fact. 

The  new  house,  new  furniture,  and  new  friends  that 
suddenly  sprung  up,  absorbed  a  large  portion  of  Mrs. 
Andrews's  time,  as  well  as  thoughts,  to  the  neglect  of 
her  children,  and  loss  of  real  comfort  in  the  household. 
But  neglected  children  are  not  passive  subjects  :  nor 
neglect  in  matters  of  domestic  comfort  a  thing  of  indif 
ference.  They  will  exist  as  painful  realities ;  and  this 
Mrs.  Andrews  soon  proved,  to  her  sorrow. 

This,  in  brief,  is  a  history  of  the  year,  in  the  waning 
light  of  which  the  husband  and  wife  sat  sighing  over 
their  disappointed  hopes. 

"  Do  you  remember  our  first  New  Year's  Eve  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Andrews,  in  a  voice  that  some  vivid  recollection 
of  the  past  had  made  tremulous  with  feeling.  This  was 
after  a  long  silence. 

For  a  few  moments,  her  husband  looked  at  her  befor« 


If  THREE   NEW   YEARS     EVES. 

replying.  Her  question  had  thrown  his  thoughts  back, 
and  now  the  memory  of  a  happier  time  was  present. 

"There  have  been  none  like  it  since,  Anna."  The 
words  were  spoken  earnestly,  but  sadly.  "And  yet," 
he  added,  after  a  thoughtful  silence,  "  this  ought  not  tc 
be.  The  years  should  grow  brighter  with  sunshine;  not 
darker  with  clouds.  Something  is  wrong.  Why,  as  the 
time  goes  on,  should  the  pressure  of  care  grow  heavier, 
and  our  spirits,  that  desire  rest  and  peace,  find  the  ocean 
of  life  more  vexed  with  storms,  as  the  ship  advances  ? 
Yes,  Anna,  I  do  remember  that  first  New  Year's  Eve. 
Alas  !  how  unlike  the  present !" 

"We  werft  poorer  in  this  world's  goods,  but  richer  in 
feelings,"  said  Mrs.  Andrews.  "  That  dear  little  library  ! 
There  was  a  charm  about  it,  never  found  in  any  of  our 
richer  apartments.  The  heart's  warm  sunshine  fell  all 
around  it,  and  made  every  object  beautiful." 

"  Something  is  wrong."  Mr.  Andrews  repeated  the 
words  more  earnestly.  "  If,  since  that  first  pleasant 
New  Year's  Eve,  the  sky  above  us  has  grown  colder,  the 
path  rougher,  and  our  hearts  sadder,  we  cannot  be  on 
*he  road  to  happiness.  If,  with  every  advancing  step, 
the  sunshine  continues  to  fade,  we  must  be  on  the  road 
to  darkness,  and  not  light." 

"  The  light  has  grown  dimmer,  and  yet  we  have  been 
looking  for  the  morning  to  break  in  brilliant  sunshine !" 

"Our  external  condition  is  improved,"  said  Mr.  An 
drews.  "  We  have  a  better  home,  and  my  business  has 
greatly  enlarged ;  yet,  neither  of  these  changes  has 
brought  the  anticipated  pleasure.  You  are  not  as  happy 
amid  all  these  elegant  surroundings,  and  I  am  less  satis- 


THREE    NEW    YEARS'    EVES.  15 

ficd  with  largo  gains  in  business,  than  I  was  when  my 
income  reached  scarcely  a  third  of  its  present  amount, 
Yes,  yes,  something  is  wrong,  and  it  behooves  us  to  look 
well  to  our  ways.  If  these  are  the  penalties  we  pay  for 
an  improved  worldly  condition,  then  wealth  must  be  a 
curse,  instead  of  a  blessing." 

"  If  we  set  our  hearts  upon  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Andrews, 
"  it  will  prove  a  curse.  And,  dear  husband,  may  not 
our  error  lie  just  here?" 

Mr.  Andrews  did  not  reply  for  some  minutes,  during 
which  time  thought  was  very  busy.  He  then  said, 

"  It  does  lie  just  where  you  say,  Anna.  I  am  build 
ing  too  much  on  the  mere  accumulation  of  wealth,  as  a 
means  of  happiness,  and  you  are  permitting  your  eyes 
to  be  dazzled  by  the  surface-glitter  of  the  world 
around  you.  We  are  placing  our  highest  good  in  mere 
external  things,  to  the  almost  total  neglect  of  what  is 
internal,  and  therefore  more  real.  What  are  wealth  and 
elegance?  what  are  honour  and  reputation?  what  are 
fine  houses  and  grand  villas,  if  the  heart  be  dissatisfied  ? 
If  each  returning  New  Year's  Eve  find  us  sadder  than 
before,  are  we  not  living  in  vain?" 

"Dear  husband  !"  said  Mrs.  Andrews,  "let  us  begin 
the  New  Year  in  a  wiser  and  better  life.  Come  home 
to  me,  as  of  old,  leaving  the  world  and  its  cares  behind 
you  ;  and  I  will  strive,  with  an  earnest  spirit,  to  disperse 
all  clouds,  so  that  the  sunshine  may  come  in,  as  of  old. 
Let  us  find,  in  every  passing  day,  the  treasure  it  brings 
to  our  door,  and  not  lose  the  blessings  we  have,  in  a  vain 
longing  after  some  mere  ideal  good." 

As  they  talked,  the  weight  of  sadness  was  liftel  fron 


itJ  THREE    NEW    YEARS'    EVE3 

their  spirits.  Even  in  truer  thoughts  and  better  pur 
poses,  there  comes  a  measure  of  peace  to  the  troubled 
heart ;  how  much  more,  if  thought  and  purpose  give 
birth  to  action  ! 

The  evening  closed  more  brightly  than  it  began. 
Peace  fluttered  again  above  their  hearts,  seeking  therein 
a  nestling- place. 

"  We  will  not  forget  the  world  within  us,  for  the  world 
without,"  said  Mr.  Andrews,  closing  the  pages  of  a  book, 
in  which  he  read  aloud  to  his  wife,  as  on  their  first  New 
Year's  Eve  ;  "  the  internal,  for  the  external ;  the  riches 
of  mind  and  heart,  for  the  wealth  that  perishes  in  the 
using.  Our  feet  have  gone  astray ;  but  we  are  not  such 
distant  wanderers  from  the  right  path,  that  we  may  not 
find  it  again  !" 

Have  you  wandered,  like  them,  reader,  from  the 
pleasant  ways  of  life !  Have  you  made  the  external 
of  more  importance  than  the  internal  ?  If  so,  pause, 
as  the  year  wanes,  and  resolve  to  begin  the  next  in  a 
wiser  subordination  of  things  natural  and  worldly,  to 
things  moral,  intellectual,  and  spiritual.  Doing  so,  you 
will  find  that,  while  you  have  seemed  to  see  dimly,  in 
the  far  distance,  the  beautiful  garments  of  Peace,  the 
fair  goddess  was  knocking  at  the  door  of  your  heart, 
and  vainly  seeking  an  entrance. 


THE  POWER  OF  KINDNESS. 

WE  lo  not  know  the  origin  of  the  following  article. 
It  is  excellent: — 

A  certain  individual,  whom  we  shall  call  Bullard,  was 
one  of  the  most  cross-grained  and  peevish  of  men.  It 
was  misery  to  be  near  him.  He  grumbled  and  snarled 
incessantly,  and  found  fault  with  every  one  and  every 
thing  around  him.  Nothing  seemed  to  please  him.  He 
seemed  to  exist  in  one  perpetual  foment  of  irascible  im 
patience,  uncomfortable  himself,  and  sowing  the  seeda 
of  anger,  fretfulness,  and  discord  wherever  he  appeared. 
His  home  was  especially  unhappy.  Bitter  retorts  and 
passionate  invectives  obtained  dominant  sway.  He  con 
stantly  railed  at  his  wife,  and  she  replied  in  the  same 
unloving  strain  ;  the  children  quickly  imbibed  a  like  vin 
dictive  habit,  until  such  a  thing  as  a  pleasant  look  or 
kindly  word  was  never  known  among  them. 

One  day  Mr.  Bullard  was  returning  to  his  cheerless 
dwelling,  more  feverish  in  temper  than  \vas  his  wont,  in 
consequence  of  some  disappointment,  ready  to  vent  his 
angry  spleen  upon  his  family  as  soon  as  he  arrived.  If 
the  supper  was  not  ready  to  sit  down  to  at  the  very 
moment,  he  would  almost  turn  the  house  upside  down, 
and  strike  his  wife  to  the  quick  with  his  taunting  com 
plaints.  But  chancing  to  approach  a  little  sunny-haired 
girl,  whose  mild  blue  eyes  and  loving  face  were  such  a 
picture  of  bursting  kindness  as  he  had  never  seen  before, 
an  incident  occurred  which  effected  a  complete  revolu- 
2 


18  THE   POWER   OF    KINDNESS. 

tion  in  his  peevish  frame  of  mind  and  planted  a  ne\» 
feeling  in  his  turbulent  breast.  The  girl,  and  one,  evi 
dently  her  older  brother,  were  playing  with  a  small  car 
riage  ;  and,  suddenly  turning  near  a  stone  step,  she 
accidentally  struck  the  carriage  against  one  corner,  and 
broke  it  into  atoms.  In  a  passionate  burst  of  anger,  the 
boy  advanced,  and  struck  his  sister  a  severe  blow  in  the 
face  with  his  clinched  hand,  and  stamped  his  feet  in  a 
tempest  of  fury  upon  the  ground. 

But,  instead  of  returning  the  blow  and  revengeful 
speech,  after  an  involuntary  cry  of  pain,  the  noble  girl 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  her  brother's  arm,  and  looking 
sorrowfully  into  his  flushed  face,  softly  said,  "  Oh, 
brother  Tom  !  I  did  not  think  you  would  do  that."  In 
a  moment,  as  if  stung  by  a  hot  iron,  the  boy  shrunk 
back,  and  hung  his  head  in  shame  and  conscience-stricken 
pain.  Then  he  said,  "  Forgive  me,  dear  Helen  !  I  will 
never  do  it  again."  And  scarce  had  the  penitent  words 
left  his  lips,  when  his  sister's  arms  were  thrown  around 
his  neck,  and  forgiveness  sobbed  on  his  breast.  Here 
was  a  lesson  for  Bullard  !  At  first  he  was  quite  stunned 
by  it ;  he  could  not  understand  it.  It  was  something 
utterly  beyond  his  philosophy.  But  he  felt  that  it  had 
Bomehow  done  him  good.  Bit  by  bit,  as  he  proceeded 
on,  his  own  angry  feelings  vanished,  till  he  felt  more 
calm  and  kindly  than  he  had  done  for  years.  Yea,  ho 
was  softened  to  his  heart's  core,  and  he  felt  something 
rery  like  moisture  springing  to  his  eyes. 

Little  noting  the  wonderful  change  which  had  taken 
place  in  her  husband's  temper,  Mrs.  Bullard  was  dread 
ing  his  arrival  home,  for  supper  was  not  near  ready,  and 


THE   POWER   OF   KINDNESS.  10 

she  had  had  the  misfortune  to  burn  the  calces  she  had 
baked  for  that  meal.  And  the  children,  copying  from 
her,  were  unusually  cross  and  bad.  In  vain  she  had 
scolded  Jind  whipped  them  ;  they  only  snarled  and  struck 
each  other,  and  almost  drove  her  distracted  with  their 
quarrelling  confusion. 

Mr.  Billiard  entered,  and  whatever  could  be  the  mat 
ter,  Mrs.  Bullard  could  scarcely  give  credit  to  her  senses. 
Instead  of  dashing  the  door  behind  him  in  a  pettish 
crash,  and  stamping  his  way  forward  to  the  kitchen,  he 
took  the  crying  baby  from  its  bed,  and  hushed  it  with 
the  softest  and  most  endearing  words  he  had  ever  used. 
And  his  face  had  a  smile  on  it — a  real,  kind,  sunshiny 
smile.  What  strange  wonder  was  this  ?  Mrs.  Bullard 
•was,  at  first,  struck  quite  dumb  with  astonishment,  and 
the  children  stared  at  their  changed  father  as  if  at  a 
loss  to  make  the  mystery  out.  He  spoke,  and  actually 
said,  "  My  dear  Mary,  is  supper  nearly  ready  ?  I'm  as 
hungry  as  a  hunter  !"  Their  wonder  increased  more  and 
more.  The  children  hardly  seemed  assured  whether  it 
was  their  father  or  not ;  and  Mrs.  Bullard  scarcely  knew 
whether  to  believe  in  the  evidence  of  her  eyes  and  ears. 
But  the  change  was  real.  Already  a  blessed  feeling 
diffused  through  the  family  circle,  like  unto  the  falling 
of  the  morning  dew,  or  the  fragrant  breath  of  summer 
flowers.  At  first,  hesitatingly,  Mrs.  Bullard  replied — • 
"  Supper  will  be  ready  directly.  But  I  am  so  sorry 
these  cakes  are  burned.  Must  Willie  run  to  the  bakery 
for  a  loaf?"  "No,  never  mind,"  returned  Mr.  Bullard, 
"we  can  scrape  off  the  burned  part,  and  then  they  will 
taste  as  well  as  need  be." 


20  THE   POWER   OP   KINDNESS. 

And  taste  as  well  they  did,  and  better  than  cakes  had 
tasted  in  the  Bullard  dwelling  for  a  long  time  before. 
Not  one  jarring  speech  marred  the  pleasantness  of  that 
happy  meal.  Mr,  Bullard's  kindly  speech  and  smiling 
face  had  descended  to  his  wife,  and  from  both  became 
reflected  in  their  children.  The  house  looked  brighter. 
The  beautiful  mantle  of  cheerfulness  had  fallen  on  it, 
»nd  there  was  unutterable  music  in  the  very  ticking  of 
the  old  clock.  Mrs.  Bullard  cried  with  delight,  when 
she  saw  the  baby  crowing  in  its  smiling  father's  lap ; 
and  he  promised,  if  the  elder  ones  would  be  good,  to 
take  them  on  a  nice  walk  with  him  on  the  next  Sabbath 
day.  And  she  resolved  never  more  to  speak  a  peevish 
or  angry  word  again,  if  constant  watchfulness  could 
prevent  their  utterance,  but  retain  the  peaceful  happi 
ness  which  only  kind  words  and  smiles  can  bring.  A 
happy  influence,  too,  was  exerted  on  the  children.  They 
no  longer  saw  peevishness  and  anger  in  their  parents ; 
and  gradually,  but  surely,  lost  it  in  themselves.  And 
Mr.  Bullard,  whenever  he  felt  his  old  bad  feelings  rising 
up  to  find  an  outer  vent,  called  to  mind  the  conduct  of 
the  blue-eyed  girl,  and  resolutely  crushed  them  down. 

Reader,  believe  us,  kind  words  are  the  brightest 
flowers  of  earth's  existence ;  they  make  a  very  paradise 
of  the  humblest  home  the  world  can  show.  Use  them, 
and  especially  round  the  fireside  circle.  They  are 
jewels  beyond  price,  and  more  precious  to  heal  the 
wounded  heart,  and  make  the  weighed-down  spirit  glad, 
than  all  other  blessings  the  earth  can  give. 


"OUR    PET." 

We  have  a  little  favourite. 

The  fairest  of  all  things  ; 
Should  you  see  her,  you  would  call 

A  cherub  without  wings  ; 
Or  a  fairy,  bird,  or  blossom — 

You  may  call  her  what  you  will, 
To  each  she  bears  resemblance, 

But  herself  is  better  still. 

Her  hair  is  soft  and  golden, 

As  the  petals  of  a  flower  ; 
Her  eyes,  the  blue  forget-me-not 

In  summer's  softest  hour  ; 
Her  voice  is  low  and  joyous 

As  the  warble  of  a  bird  ; 
Her  step,  like  rustling  blossoms, 

By  evening  zephyrs  stirred. 

Her  motions  are  the  fairy's, 

So  full  of  witching  grace, 
And  you  read  her  guileless  nature 

In  the  sunshine  of  her  face, 
A  pretty  April  blossom, 

A  bright  bird  of  the  wild, 
A  fairy  or  a  cherub, 

She  yet  is  but  a  child. 

Ycu  should  see  our  little  Alice 
In  her  robe  of  lily  white, 

As  she  steals  about  on  tip-toe 
To  kiss  us  all  "  good-night." 


22  THANKSGIVING. 


Should  see  her  clasp  her  dimpled  hands. 

Beside  her  little  chair. 
And  with  tongue  that  falters  often, 

Lisp  out  her  little  prayer. 

You  should  see, — Out  I'd  forgotten, 

It  is  only  "  our  sweet  peV" 
To  others  but  a  common  chili, 

To  glance  at,  and  forget. 
A  child  !  a  free,  glad-hearted  child  ; 

Has  earth  a  thing  more  fair  ? 
Holds  Heaven  a  richer  treasure, 

Than  the  bright  ones  gathered  there  ? 


THANKSGIVING. 

"  THERE,  I  am  thankful !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Everett, 
as  she  seated  herself  at  her  very  inviting  tea-tahle,  on 
the  evening  previous  to  our  New  England  festival.  The 
cloth  was  of  dazzling  whiteness ;  the  tea  service,  though 
not  costly,  of  glittering  purity;  and  her  own  matronly 
figure  was  very  becomingly  arrayed.  Yet  the  good  lady 
was  manifestly  thinking  of  something  above  and  beneath 
this  agreeable  picture,  of  which  she  was  trie  successful 
artist;  for  she  immediately  added,  "For  the  first  time 
einee  we  were  married,  Thanksgiving  will  Gnd  us  with  a 
house  in  perfect  order,  from  attic  to  cellar." 

Mrs.  Everett  had  been  a  housekeeper  for  fifteen  years, 
yet  the  statement  she  had  just  made  was  literally  true. 
Blame  her  not  too  severely.  The  task  of  keeping  a 
domestic  establishment  in  faultless  condition  is  one  re- 


THANKSGIVING.  28 

quiring  If  not  the  strength  of  a  Hercules,  yet  a  far  higher 
degree  jf  minute  and  patient  care  than  any  of  his  world- 
famous  achievements.  Mrs.  Everett  had  rightly  stated 
the  order  of  her  improvements,  for  she  had  begun  with 
the  superstructure,  and  had  hut  just  reached  the  founda 
tion  of  the  temple  of  domestic  comfort.  Pride  and  poverty 
were  her  only  dowry  when  she  wedded,  and  having  been 
for  years  dependent  upon  wealthy  relatives,  she  had  ao 
quired  a  taste  for  expensive  luxuries,  and  a  love  of  dis 
play  that  was  not  very  consistently  manifested.  The 
household  duties  were  performed  at  first  with  the  aid  of 
one  very  young  and  inexperienced  domestic,  and  while 
the  tasteful  fingers  of  the  mistress  wrought  ottomans 
and  other  fancy  articles  for  the  parlour,  the  poor  little 
maid  presided  with  sorry  dignity  over  a  very  slatternly 
kitchen  cabinet.  Mr.  Everett  had  been  slightly  epicu 
rean  in  his  tastes,  but  this  trait  of  character  soon 
vanished  before  the  daily  abominations  that  were  the 
results  of  her  juvenile  administration.  His  wardrobe, 
too,  experienced  some  neglect.  His  clean  linen,  when 
such  he  wore,  sometimes  protruded  from  the  elbow  of 
his  coat,  and  embroidered  slippers  were  an  indifferent 
apology  for  his  very  disreputable  hose. 

The  residence  of  the  Everetts  was  in  a  flourishing 
village,  which  boasted  a  fair  supply  of  soi-disant  aristo 
cracy,  within  whose  charmed  circle  it  was  Mrs.  Everett's 
chief  ambition  to  gain  admittance.  Yet  for  some  years 
her  very  zeal  to  compass  this  end  defeated  itself,  for 
while  she  received  very  few  calls  at  home,  she  sent  daily 
int"  the  street  a  placard,  on  which  some  of  her  grossest 


24  THANKSGIVING. 

failings  were  alvertised — even  her  good  husband,  witfc 
his  unbrushed  coat,  soiled  linen,  and  ragged  gloves. 

"  Why  have  you  never  called  upon  Mrs.  Everett  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Leslie,  one  day,  of  Mrs.  Grant.  (Both 
ladies  were  decidedly  of  the  upper  ten.)  '*  I  have  met 
her  several  times,  and  she  seems  to  me  to  possess  some 
taste  and  cultivation.  She  is  very  skilful  in  needle 
work,  and  she  showed  me  a  drawing,  which,  when  finished, 
will  be  positively  an  ornament  to  any  parlour." 

"I  know  very  little  of  the  lady  in  question,"  replied 
Mrs.  Grant ;  "  but  I  think  her  needle  is  not  very  fre 
quently  employed  upon  her  husband's  clothes ;  he  is  de 
cidedly  the  shabbiest-looking  man  in  the  whole  street." 

"  That  may  be  his  own  fault,  perhaps." 

"  It  probably  is  so  in  part,  but  not  altogether ;  and 
although  I  have  seen  none  of  Mrs.  Everett's  paintings,  yet 
in  passing  her  door  I  have  repeatedly  caught  glimpses  of 
tableaux  vivants  of  a  very  uninviting  description." 

The  good-natured  apologist  was  silent. 

Within  the  first  five  years  of  her  married  life,  Mrs. 
Everett  became  the  happy  mother  of  three  beautiful 
little  girls,  and  again  her  nimble  fingers  were  busied 
with  trimmings  and  embroideries,  to  enable  the  darlings 
to  appear  in  public  like  those  who  she  fondly  hoped 
might  be  their  future  associates.  If  her  husband  re 
monstrated,  she  reminded  him  that  this  finery  cost  him 
very  little.  It  did,  however,  cost  him  a  large  deduction 
from  his  personal  comforts  during  many  weary  years. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  a  lucky  combination  of  circum 
stances  procured  the  Everetts  the  honour  of  dining  at 
Mr.  Leslie's,  with  some  very  agreeable  guests. 


THANKSGIVING.  2Jl 

that  our  gratified  desires  should  always  give  birth  to 
new  ones !  Mry.  Everett  thenceforward  sighed  perpe 
tually  for  damask  napkins  and  silver  forks.  It  was  vain 
to  speak  of  limited  means;  she  knew  a  remedy  for  that 
evil.  There  was  a  book-bindery  in  the  vicinity,  and  she 
and  her  girls  might  acquire  in  a  quiet  way,  by  folding 
and  stitching,  a  sum  quite  sufficient  for  their  purpose. 
Her  husband  sighed  in  secret,  but  he  knew  that  remon 
strance  was  in  vain.  The  task  was  commenced,  and 
•well  nigh  accomplished ; — they  were,  indeed,  at  their 
last  day's  work,  with  the  household  more  neglected  than 
ever,  when,  oh,  horror  !  Mr.  Leslie  called  upon  import 
ant  business.  The  child  who  admitted  him  gratified  his 
expressed  wish  to  see  her  mother,  by  taking  him  directly 
to  the  kitchen,  and  his  quick  eye  took  in  at  a  glance  the 
whole  condition  of  the  premises.  Mrs.  Everett  received 
him  with  a  face  of  scarlet,  but  she  was  too  proud  to 
apologize,  and  indeed  apology  was  useless. 

After  this  unpleasant  interruption,  the  mortified  group 
returned  to  their  task  with  flagging  fingers ;  yet  it  was 
in  due  time  completed,  and  the  intended  purchases  made. 
They  felt,  however,  that  they  had  paid  a  heavy  prjce  in 
the  loss  of  comfort  and  self-respect,  and  of  that  very 
reputation  which  they  were  so  anxious  to  maintain. 
Another  misfortune  followed.  A  malicious  neighbour, 
who  envied  Mrs.  Everett  her  empty  and  unsatisfied 
ambition  (what  will  not  mortals  envy  !),  gave  vent  to 
her  bitterness  by  circulating  a  calumnious  report.  The 
scandal  was  unfounded,  for,  to  do  justice  to  our  aspiring 
friend,  it  was  only  in  the  minor  morals  that  she  wag 
deficient.  Yet,  luring  the  prevalence  of  the  rumour. 


26  THANKSGIVING. 

she  was  kindly  informed  that  Mr.  Leslie  had  said  on 
hearing  it,  "I  dislike  to  encourage  scandal,  but  I  can 
believe  almost  anything  of  a  woman  whose  public  attire 
is  fresh  and  faultless,  yet  who  honours  her  fireside  with 
soiled  dress,  neglected  teeth,  ana  dusty  hair,  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  surrounding  scene." 

The  public  were  soon  undeceived  with  regard  to  the 
calumny,  but  Mrs.  Everett  never  forgot  that  her  real 
errors  had  lent  a  colouring  to  the  statement.  She  felt 
that,  like  the  wife  of  Cnesar,  she  should  have  been  above 
suspicion.  She  perceived  that  she  had  missed  the  sub 
stance  in  pursuing  a  shadow,  and  with  characteristic 
energy  she  resolved  on  an  immediate  reform.  She  de 
termined  thenceforward  to  devote  her  first  attention  to 
her  domestic  duties,  leaving  her  social  position  to  find 
its  own  natural  level.  A  thorough  in-doors  revolution 
was  what  she  aimed  at,  and  she  found  a  pleasure  in  the 
task  that  compensated  her  for  the  loss  of  some  ambitious 
visions. 

Circumstances  favoured  her.  She  was  in  the  prime 
of  life,  with  three  budding  daughters,  who  inherited  her 
own  fprce  of  character  ;  and  their  united  energies,  once 
rightly  directed,  were  speedily  followed  by  gratifying 
results.  The  husband  gave  his  cordial  support  to  the 
new  order  of  things,  and  as  day  by  day  some  time- 
honoured  nuisance  of  the  establishment  disappeared,  he 
regained  his  cheerfulness,  and  was  even  betrayed  into 
acts  of  unwonted  liberality. 

At  length  the  new  purpose  was  achieved.  Thanks 
giving  Eve  had  arrived,  and  throughout  those  regene 
rated  premises,  "from  a  thread  even  to  a  shoe-latchet," 


HOME  27 

nothing  was  misplaced  or  neglected.  We  will  new  leave 
tho  household  to  enjoy  the  charm  of  their  novel  and  in 
teresting  position,  for  although  we  know  not  their  Thurs 
day's  bill  of  fare,  we  douht  not  its  luxuries  will  be  fully 
enjoyed  by  calm  and  thankful  hearts. 

Sweet  sisters  mine,  there  are  many  of  us  who  have 
erred,  more  or  less,  after  the  fashion  of  Mrs.  Everett. 
If,  under  less  favourable  circumstances,  we  cannot  hope 
for  complete  success  in  our  endeavours  to  reform,  let  us 
all  do  something  more  for  those  whose  comfort  depends 
upon  our  fidelity,  and  resolve  that,  in  some  respects  at 
least,  our  domestic  circles  shall  have  cause  for  a  future 
perpetual  thanksgiving. 


HOME. 

Is  there  any  other  word  in  the  vocabulary  of  nations 
that  is  so  expressive,  so  suggestive,  so  gentle,  and  so 
important  in  its  wide  signification  as  that  which  heads 
our  article  ?  Home  !  What  a  talisman  it  is — what  a 
spell,  what  an  invocation  !  Is  there  any  heart,  old  or 
young,  that  does  not  beat  responsive  to  the  sound  of  that 
one  word  ?  Is  there  any  brain  so  dull  into  which  it  does 
not  flash  with  a  gush  of  suggestive  congruous  fascina 
tions?  We  have  all  had  a  home.  Perhaps  we  have  not 
all  got  one  ;  but  we  have  certainly  all  had  one.  Change 
of  time  and  circumstances  may  have  so  buffeted  us  about 
the  great  world,  that  we  feel  too  cosmopolitan  ;  and  in  an 
easy  adaptation  to  all  places,  arid  to  all  sorts  of  men. 


28  HOME. 

we  lose  that  home-feeling  which  makes  some  spot  an  in 
dividuality,  as  it  were,  which  nothing  else  shall  be  like. 
Perhaps  there  are  many  who,  with  a  philosophic  reach 
ubove  common  feeling,  hold  aloof  from  the  domesticity 
of  society,  and  with  a  self-inflicted  Pariahism,  if  we  may 
be  allowed  the  expression,  will  not  be  of  a  home  homely  ; 
but  these  are  the  eccentricities  of  human  nature.  We 
speak  of,  and  we  speak  to  the  masses,  and  to  them  we 
say,  you  have  all  homes,  or  you  had  all  homes. 

All  men,  then,  have  lost  a  home,  are  trying  to  make 
a  home,  or  are  striving  to  keep  one  that  they  have. 
Everybody  has  his  or  her  ideal  of  somewhere,  or  some 
place  of  rest,  of  complete  satisfaction,  where  the  roar 
and  the  din  of  the  great  world  may  not  enter,  or  if 
heard  at  all,  would  be  esteemed  for  its  contrast  to  the 
serenity  within — a  home,  in  fact,  for  without  serenity 
there  is  no  home.  We  used  to  think,  in  our  very  young 
days,  that  the  highest  title  that  man  could  give  to  man 
was,  his  most  serene  highness ;  and  we  now  think  that  a 
man  who  is  happy  in  his  home,  at  his  own  fireside,  with 
the  partner  of  his  heart  smiling  gently  upon  him,  and 
his  little  children  looking  like  shining  content  (as  some 
author  has  it),  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  serene 
highness.  If  such  a  one  be  not,  why,  then,  as  Othello 
says,  "chaos  has  come  again." 

Let  us  look  at  that  busy  merchant  upon  the  mart  of 
nations — fire  in  his  eye,  keen  calculation  in  every  muscle 
of  his  face,  his  brow  tinted  with  something  of  the  colour 
of  the  yellow  ore  he  struggles  and  pants  for.  He  has 
his  moments  when  with  moistened  eyes  and  faint  sighs 
ho  thinks  of  his  childhood's  home,  of  his  father's  fire- 


HOME.  29 

iide ;  and  when  there  will  rise  up  before  him  the  dim 
spectral  band  of  past  companions,  of  past  affections — 
his  mother's  tender  glance,  his  father's  counsel,  the  play 
ful  tenderness  of  a  sister's  love ;  and  in  comparison  with 
that  lost  home,  not  lost  through  fault  or  folly  of  his,  but 
swallowed  up  in  the  vortex  of  time,  he  will  for  the  mo 
ment  think  lightly  of  his  bills,  and  bonds,  and  balances, 
his  usuries,  and  his  cash  accounts ;  and  his  dream  will 
be  yet  to  make  a  home  where  there  shall  be  smiles  and 
peace. 

For  what  is  it  that  yonder  pale  student  consumes  the 
midnight  oil  ?  Is  it  for  fame  ?  The  empty  applause  of 
those  whom  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  holds  but  cheaply  ? 
Ah !  no — he  is  striving  for  a  home.  He  pictures  to  him 
self  the  vine-clad  porch  of  some  simple  cottage,  and 
himself  upon  the  threshold,  with  the  hand  of  her  whom 
he  loves  in  his,  and  all  the  world  beyond  them  banished 
from  their  contemplation.  These  men,  then,  are  striving 
to  make  a  home.  They  may  never  reach  the  goal  of 
their  ambition.  They  may,  when  the  harbour  of  refuge 
is  within  their  sight,  sink  fainting  by  the  way:  or  they 
may  find  that  habit  is  as  strong  as  this  first  aspiratior 
after  a  home,  and  they  go  on  then  striving  until  the 
grave  closes  the  account,  and  gives  them  a  quiet  home, 
indeed.  But  still  they  have  happiness  in  the  pursuit, 
if  to  them  it  were  but  an  ignus  fatuus  which  they  never 
much  cared  to  reach. 

Some  are  battling  to  regain  a  lost  home.  They  have 
had  the  blessing,  and  treated  it  like  a  bauble,  until  it 
slipped  from  them,  only  then  showing  itself  to  them,  as) 
the  shadows  of  adverse  circumstances  roll  between  them. 


3C  HOME. 

and  it,  what  a  jewel  they  have  lost;  and  home  is  some- 
thing  akin  to  love,  in  the  respect  that  once  lost,  it  is  not 
easily  recovered  again.  But  such  persons  will  commence 
their  pursuit,  and  through  the  crowds  of  humanity,  ag 
though  feasibly  looking  for  some  remembered  but  lost 
face,  they  will  search  for  another  home  like  unto  the 
one  that  has  left  them. 

Home  is  the  revivifying  spell  that  braces  many  a 
heart  to  do  its  duty.  The  mariner,  on  the  wide  ocean, 
as  he  clings  to  the  frail  spar  that  is  alone  between  him 
and  eternity,  thinks  of  his  home,  and  his  grasp  tightens,, 
for  he  feels  that  the  spirit  of  that  holy  word  has  given, 
him  strength.  The  soldier,  upon  the  scorching  plains 
of  India,  dreams  of  a  home  at  last  in  his  native  land ; 
and  as  the  watch-fire  pales  at  his  feet,  he  smiles  as  the 
vision  of  his  native  village  rises  before  his  mind's  eye. 
The  veriest  vagrant  that  begs  from  door  to  door  has  his 
home,  if  it  be  but  some  deserted  hovel  into  which  to 
crawl  at  night,  when  the  blasting  wind  is  high  and 
mighty.  The  home-spell  is  around  and  about  us  all. 
Give  the  raggedest  urchin  you  can  find  in  this  great 
city  an  alms  of  unwonted  amount,  and  ten  to  one  but 
he  shuffles  home  with  it.  The  profane  and  vulgar  are 
accustomed,  when  they  wish  that  any  rude  blusterer, 
upon  a  public  occasion,  should  be  quiet,  to  advise  him 
to  "go  home."  Even  they  know  that  home  is  the  king 
dom  of  the  heart ;  and  in  the  thatched  cottage,  through 
which  the  hollow  wind  whist/es,  as  well  as  in  the  gor 
geous  palatial  pile,  redolent  of  warmth  and  perfumes, 
the  home-spell  lingers,  and  there  is  no  place  like  it. 

A  happy  home !     Oh,  what  a  spell  there  is  in  tha 


PRAISE   AMONG    THE    MARRIED.  31 

fords !  Can  human  ambition  point  to  a  higher  hope 
than  that,  unless  it  abandons  this  great  sphere  and  fixes 
its  gaze  upon  immortality  ?  And  after  all,  what  19 
immortality,  arid  the  God-like  hope  of  Christianity,  but 
a  happy  home  for  ever  ?  Is  there  anything  in  the  wido 
world  so  gracious  to  the  heart  as  the  home  fireside  ? 
Home  voices,  their  sights  and  sounds  ?  Home  tears 
ever  have  in  them  a  redeeming  joy  that  makes  them 
all  but  celestial ! 

The  man  who  with  humble  means  and  quiet  wishes, 
the  man  with  a  mind  attuned  to  the  harmonies,  and  to 
the  beauties  of  nature,  who  has  a  home,  where  envy  and 
unthankfulness  find  no  place,  where  dear  domestic  love 
and  gentleness  are  the  presiding  angels,  is  indeed  a  Se 
rene  Highness ;  and  long  may  he  continue  so,  and  may 
our  happy  country  be  ever  celebrated  as  the  land  of 
Home  and  Hearts ! 


PRAISE  AMONG  THE  MARRIED. 

YES,  among  the  married.  Why  should  they  not  spealt 
kindly  of  each  other?  the  voice  of  commendation  u 
sweet,  doubly  sweet  from  the  lips  of  those  we  love.  It 
chills  the  best  feelings,  weakens  the  highest  aspirations 
when  continuous  and  sacrificing  effort  calls  forth  no 
kindly  return — no  words  of  cheer,  of  encouragement. 
The  snow  is  ever  unimpressible  in  the  deep,  hollow, 
recesses  of  the  mountain  cliff,  where  no  straggling  beam 
of  merry  sunshine  melts  it  with  kisses ;  cold  and  whit* 


PRAISE   AMONG   THE    MARRIED. 

it  sleeps  in  perpetual  suadow,  till  its  soft  roundness  con* 
geals  into  ice.  And  so  the  heart,  if  forced  to  abide  in 
the  shadow  of  frowns,  under  the  continual  dropping  of 
hard,  unkindly  words,  will  assimilate  itself  to  its  mate, 
and  become  a  sad  and  listless  heart,  lying  heavily  and 
cold  in  the  bosom  that  should  be  all  filled  with  glowing 
sympathies. 

Husbands  often  do  not  know  with  what  ceaseless  soli 
citude  the  duties  of  a  wife  and  mother  are  accompanied. 
They  leave  home  early,  many  of  them ;  the  routine  of 
business,  the  same  as  it  was  yesterday,  and  will  be 
months  to  come,  is  so  thoroughly  digested  that  the  per 
formance  is  measurably  without  annoyance.  They  have 
no  heavy  or  wearing  household  work  to  do,  no  fretting 
little  ones  hanging  on  to  their  garments,  now  to  nurse, 
now  to  correct,  now  to  instruct,  while  still  the  dusting, 
and  the  cleansing,  and  the  preparing  of  food,  must  be 
going  on,  and  the  little  garments  must  be  nicely  fitted 
and  made,  or  all  would  be  untidiness  and  confusion.  Yet 
how  many  an  adroit  manager  contrives  to  get  through 
with  all  this,  willing — if  she  is  but  appreciated,  and  her 
valuable  services  esteemed — to  endure,  calmly,  the  triala 
incident  to  her  lot,  keeping  care  from  her  pleasant  face 
by  a  merry  spirit  and  cheerful  demeanour. 

But  if  she  never  hears  the  kindly  "I  thank  you,"  or 
beholds  the  beautiful  smile  that  unuttered  gratitude 
spreads  upon  the  countenance  of  him  for  whom  she  baa 
forsaken  all,  what  immeasurable  anguish  will  she  not 
experience  ? 

We  have  often  thought  how  poignant  must  be  the 
grief,  how  heavy  the  disappointment  of  the  young  wife, 


PRAISE   AMONG    THE   MARRIED.  33 

when  she  first  learns  that  the  hushand  of  her  choice  is 
totally  indifferent  to  her  studied  efforts  to  please.  He- 
has  many  times,  in  former  days,  praised  the  glossj 
beauty  of  her  sunny  hair,  and  curled  its  rings  of  gold 
around  his  fingers.  He  has  gazed  in  her  face  until  it  il 
stamped  upon  the  tablets  of  his  heart,  yet,  through  uttei 
thoughtlessness,  he  forgets  now  that  it  has  heen  such  a 
talisman  of  goodness  and  purity  to  him,  or  old  associa 
tions  have  made  him  too  much  their  own,  to  play  the 
lover  after  the  solemn  words  of  ceremony  are  spoken. 
He  has  given  her  his  honour,  and  a  home ;  his  name,  his 
means  ;  what  more  can  she  want  ? 

Gayly  as  the  bird  upon  the  tree  by  her  doorside,  does 
she  go  carolling  about  her  work.  The  day  seems  one 
long  year — but  still,  twilight  does  come,  and  she  awaita 
the  return  of  her  husband.  He  has  perhaps  but  slender 
resources ;  he  is  a  labouring  man,  and  their  cottage  ia 
humble  and  low-roofed.  How  light  is  her  step  ;  how 
happy  her  brow !  Like  a  skilful  painter  she  has  touched 
and  re-touched  all  the  slender  luxuries  of  her  home,  till 
they  seem  to  her  like  the  adornings  of  a  paradise.  She 
has  taste,  refinement,  a  quick  perception  of  the  delicate 
and  beautiful,  though  mayhap  she  never  has  plied  her 
needle  at  worsted  tapestry,  traced  the  outlines  of  a  sin 
gle  tree  or  flower,  or  elicited  SAveet  sounds  from  harp  or 
piano. 

The  hearth  is  bright  and  red — not  a  speck  of  dust  is 
visible.  She  has  brought  out  all  her  hoarded  wealth, 
and  the  tables,  the  new-varnished  bureau,  and  the  arm 
chair  back,  shine  in  snowy  garniture.  She  has  placed 
the  little  pictures  in  the  best  light,  hung  up  the  wide 
z 


34  PRAISE    AMONG    THE    MARRIED 

sampler — her  child-work  at  school — made  all  things  look 
cheerful  and  bright,  placed  a  bouquet  of  brilliant  flowers 
upon  the  neat  supper-table,  and  another  in  the  little  fire 
place,  and  with  pleasant  anticipations  she  awaits  hia 
return. 

"How  cheerful  everything  looks!"  she  murmurs; 
"  and  how  pleased  he  will  be  !  he  will  commend  my  care 
and  taste." 

Presently  the  well-known  step  draws  near ;  she  flies 
with  a  happy  smile  to  meet  him,  and  together  they  enter 
their  mutual  home. 

What !  no  sign  of  surprise  ?  no  new  delight  on  his 
features  ! 

Does  he  receive  all  her  attention,  as  a  matter  of 
course  ?  something  looked  for,  expected,  easily  done, 
and  without  price  ?  Can  he  not  pay  her  the  tribute  of 
a  glad  smile  ?  Alas  !  he  does  not  believe  in  praise ;  his 
wife  must  be  disinterested ;  must  look  upon  these  per 
formances  as  stern  duties ;  if  he  praise  now,  and  forget 
to  praise  again,  they  may  be  discontinued. 

She  is  disappointed,  chagrined ;  and  unless  taste  and 
perfect  neatness  are  indispensable  to  her  own  comfort, 
she  gradually  wearies  in  well-doing,  when  a  little  kindly 
encouragement,  a  little  praise,  might  have  stimulated 
her  to  constant  exertion. 

Many  a  wife  becomes  careless  of  her  appearance  be 
cause  of  her  husband's  indifference.  Now,  in  the  simple 
matter  of  dress — not  so  simple,  either — how  often  men 
think  it  beneath  their  notice  to  approve  the  choice  of 
their  companions  !  We  once  remarked  to  a  gentleman, 
that  his  wife  displayed  most  admirable  taste  in  her  attire, 


PRAISE   AMONG   THE    MARRIED.  35 

and  what  think  you  was  his  answer  ?  With  a  sigh  we 
record  it :  "  Has  she  ?  well,  now,  I  should  hardly  know 
whether  she  had  on  a  wash-gown  or  a  satin  dress."  Wo 
involuntarily  disliked  him  ;  and  thought  that  the  expres 
sion  upon  the  countenance  of  his  partner  spoke  volumes. 

Now  we  do  like  to  see  a  husband  notice  such  things, 
even  to  particularity.  We  like  to  hear  him  give  his  opi 
nion  as  to  whether  such  and  such  a  thing  is  becoming  to 
his  wife.  We  are  pleased  to  see  a  father  interested  in 
the  little  purchases  of  his  children,  one  who  never  says 
with  a  frown,  "Oh!  go  away;  I  don't  care  for  such 
things  ;  suit  yourselves." 

And  in  household  concerns  the  husband  should  express 
his  approbation  of  neatness  and  order  ;  he  should  be 
grateful  for  any  little  effort  that  may  have  been  put 
forth  to  add  to  his  comfort  or  pleasure ;  he  should  com 
mend  the  good  graces  of  his  wife,  and  at  fitting  times 
make  mention  of  them.  Indeed,  not  one  alone,  but 
both  should  reciprocate  the  good  offices  of  the  other. 
We  never  esteemed  a  woman  the  less  on  hearing  her 
Bay,  "  I  have  a  good  husband ;"  we  never  thought  a 
man  wanting  in  dignity  who  spoke  of  his  wife  as  being 
dear  to  him,  or  quoted  her  amiability  or  industry  as 
worthy  of  example  before  others.  Who  does  not  esteem 
the  unaffected  praise  of  a  husband  or  a  wife,  above  that 
of  all  others  ?  No  motive  but  love  induces  either  to 

"  Speak  the  gentle  words 
That  sink  into  the  heart." 

Solomon  says,  "  Her  husband  he  praiseth  her ;"  and 
only  the  morose  and  reserved,  who  care  not  to  fill  the 


36  PRAISE   AMONG    THE    MARRIED. 

fount  of  kindliness  by  pleasant  words,  differ  from  the 
sacred  writer. 

How  many  a  home  have  we  seen  glittering  with  splen 
dour  ;  where  glowing  marble,  from  Italia's  clime,  gives  a 
silent  welcome  to  the  entering  guest;  where  on  the  walla 
hang  votive  offerings  of  art  that  fill  the  whole  soul  with 
their  beauty ;  where  the  carpets  yield  to  the  lightest 
pressure,  and  the  rich  hangings  crimson  the  palest  cheek ! 
Yet  amidst  all  this  show  and  adorning  has  the  proud 
wife  sat,  the  choicest  piece  of  furniture  there — for  so 
her  husband  regards  her.  Formal  and  stern,  he  has 
thrown  around  her  the  drapery  of  his  chill  heart,  and  it 
has  folded  about  her  like  marble.  She  is  "my  lady," 
and  nothing  more.  No  outbursts  of  affection  in  the  form 
of  sweet  praise  fall  upon  her  ears — yet  pendants  of  dia 
monds  drop  therefrom,  but  their  shining  is  like  his  love, 
costly  and  cold.  We  have  heard  such  a  one  say,  in  times 
gone  by,  "  all  this  wealth,  all  this  show  and  pride  of 
station  would  I  resign,  for  one  word  of  praise  from  my 
husband.  He  never  relaxes  from  the  loftiness  which  has 
made  him  feared  among  men ;  he  never  speaks  to  me 
but  wjfch  measured  accents,  though  he  surrounds  me  with 
luxuries." 

We  wondered  not  that  a  stifled  sob  closed  the  sen 
tence  ;  who  had  not  rather  live  in  a  cottage,  through 
which  the  winds  revel  and  the  raindrops  fall,  with  one 
in  whose  heart  dwell  impulses  the  holiest  in  our  nature, 
one  who  is  not  ashamed  or  afraid  to  give  fitting  commen 
dation,  than  in  the  most  gorgeous  of  earthly  palaces, 
with  H  companion  whose  lips  are  sealed  for  ever  to  the 
expression  of  fondness,  sympathy,  and  praise? 


THE   ART   OF  LIVING  EASY  87 


THE  ART  OF  LIVING  EASY. 

"  I  CAN'T  see,  for  my  life,  how  you  get  along  so  easy, 
Mrs.  Jones,"  said  merry  Ellen,  to  her  mother's  nearest 
neighbour ;  "  your  family  is  larger  than  ours,  and  you 
have  less  help — but  you  are  always  in  time.  Come  when 
I  will,  I  find  things  in  good  order — no  bustle,  fuss,  or 
confusion.  Now,  we  are  all  work  from  morning  till  night, 
at  our  house,  and  our  work  is  never  done.  There  must 
be  witch-work  about  it — some  secret — do  tell  us,  won't 
you?" 

"  Why,  Ellen,  I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  great 
secret  about  it ;  all  I  can  tell  is,  I  don't  seem  to  work 
very  hard,  but  somehow  I  do  get  along  very  easy,  as  you 
say,  with  all  that  seems  to  fall  to  my  lot." 

"Well,  we  all  know  that,  Mrs.  Jones,  and  we  know,  too, 
that  you  do  more  reading  and  writing  than  any  of  the 
rest  of  us,  and  visit  the  sick  more,  and  find  time  for 
everything  that  is  good — oh,  there  is,  and  you  must  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

"  Yes,  Ellen,  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  about  it,  for 
you're  real  smart,  and  will  make  a  first-rate  wife  for 
Fred  some  day ;  but  you  must  first  promise  to  try  and 
make  my  secret  of  practical  use  to  yourself,  and  teach 
everybody  else." 

Ellen  blushed,  and  almost  wished  she  had  not  been  so 
impertinent.  But  Ellen  was  a  good,  sensible  girl,  and 
was  impressed  with  the  idea  that  Fred  would  want  a 
wife  somewhat  resembling  his  mother  in  domestic  mat- 


33  THE   ART   OF   LIVING   EAST. 

ters ;  so  she  stooped  down  and  tied  her  shoe,  to  hide  her 
confusion.  Mrs.  Jones  laid  down  the  cheese-knife  (for 
it  was  early  in  the  morning),  took  up  her  babe,  which  her 
kind  heart  and  arms  had  taken  home,  and  picked  up  a 
basket  of  green  peas  that  were  to  be  shelled  for  dinner, 
and  sat  down  to  nurse  her  little  orphan  to  sleep,  take  the 
peas  out  of  the  pod,  and  tell  her  story. 

"  Well,  Ellen,  my  secret  is  just  this  : — When  I  go  out 
to  shake  the  table-cloth,  I  always  bring  in  a  stick  of 
wood  ;  seldom  take  two  steps  where  one  will  answer,  and 
try  to  do  everything  the  shortest  way.  I  pulverize  sal- 
eratus  enough  to  last  a  month  at  one  time,  keep  it  in  a 
convenient  vessel,  and  then  it  is  always  ready  for  use — 
no  untying  papers  and  scattering  the  floor  and  cupboard ; 
no  table,  rolling-pin,  or  mortar  to  clear  but  once.  Instead 
of  beating  my  eggs  with  a  knife  or  spoon,  I  have  a  whip 
made  of  wire,  bent  in  an  oblong  shape  like  a  tassel,  and 
tied  with  a  bit  of  twine  to  a  hickory  handle,  and  I  can 
beat  the  whites  of  six  eggs  to  a  standing  form  in  two 
minutes  as  easily  as  you  will  in  half  an  hour  with  a  knife. 
Anybody  can  make  an  egg-whip  that  can  whittle  a  stick, 
or  find  a  piece  of  wire,  if  they  cannot  afford  to  buy  one. 
I  only  mention  these  things  as  samples  of  time-saving. 
But  if  you  will  not  be  offended,  I  will  tell  you  a  littlo 
story." 

"Offended!  Not  I.  It's  the  silliest  thing  in  the 
world  to  get  offended,  particularly  at  those  who  wish  to 
do  us  good.  The  doctor  often  has  to  administer  unplea 
sant  drugs  to  effect  a  cure." 

"Well  then,  Ellen,  I  was  out  taking  tea  with  a  neigh 
bour  last  week,  and  we  went  into  the  milk  room  and 


THK   ART   OF   LIVING   EAST.  39 

cheese  room  to  see  the  cheese ;  and  as  we  came  hack  we 
stopped  a  few  minutes  to  chat  in  the  kitchen.  The  lady 
told  the  girl  she  might  make  some  flannel  cakes,  or  grid 
dle  cakes,  as  some  call  them,  for  tea.  She  started  off 
on  the  bound  to  do  her  duty.  First  she  ran  down  cellar 
and  brought  up  the  buttermilk  jar,  holding  almost  a 
pailful ;  then  she  ran  back  for  the  eggs,  untied  a  half 
pound  of  saleratus,  scattered  a  spoonful  on  the  floor  and 
another  on  the  table,  rolled  it  and  tied  it  up  ;  next 
turned  her  buttermilk  out  and  spattered  a  new  dress  all 
about  the  waist,  splashed  it  over  the  table  on  divers 
things,  said  "Oh,  pshaw  !"  picked  up  the  saleratus  from 
the  floor,  cleaned  her  dress,  and  brought  a  plate,  and 
lan  to  the  meal  room,  and  came  back  with  a  heaping 
plate  of  flour,  put  it  into  the  pan  and  stirred  away,  back 
und  forth,  till  it  was  all  submerged  and  all  lumps.  There 
was  r.ot  flour  enough  ;  away  she  ran  again,  brought 
more ;  there  was  still  not  enough,  and  the  third  journey 
had  to  be  made ;  in  it  was  dashed,  and  she  stirred  away 
till  her  face  glowed  like  a  peony.  All  at  once  she  thought 
of  her  eggs,  and  broke  them  into  the  batter.  She  had 
forgotten  the  salt,  and  ran  the  fourth  time  into  the  meal 
room.  Now  her  batter  was  too  thick,  and  more  butter 
milk  had  to  be  used,  and  consequently  the  saleratus 
paper  had  to  undergo  another  operation.  Finally,  after 
much  labour  and  toil,  and  an  expenditure  of  much  time, 
and  waste  of  material,  the  lumpy  batter  was  ready  for 
use.  But  here  was  a  new  trouble :  the  fire  that  was 
just  right  half  an  hour  before,  was  now  exhausted ;  the 
griddle  which  had  been  set  upon  the  stove  in  the  begin 
ning,  burned  rough,  the  kitchen  and  ante-room  full  of 


40  THE   ART   OF   LIVING   EAST. 

the  unpleasant  smoke  and  odour  of  burnt  grease — the 
cakes  stuck  fast  to  the  iron — two  messes  were  wasted 
before  the  griddle  could  be  rubbed  smooth ;  the  dish 
cloths  were  in  sad  plight,  and  the  young  lady  had  ex 
pended  as  much  actual  labour  as  would  have  prepared 
the  whole  meal,  set  the  table  and  all." 

"  Oh  dear !  that  was  me ;  anybody  might  know  the 
picture  !  But  how  would  you  have  managed  ?" 

"  I  should  have  taken  my  pan  and  spoon,  put  my  sal- 
eratus  into  the  pan,  gone  down  cellar,  and  with  my  cup, 
which  I  keep  in  the  jar  for  that  purpose,  dipped  the 
buttermilk,  without  spattering  it,  into  my  pan ;  then 
broke  the  eggs  carefully  into  the  milk ;  gone  from  there 
to  the  meal  room  and  sifted  the  proper  quantity  of  flour 
in,  and  stirred  it  carefully,  thus  beating  the  eggs  Avhile 
I  stirred  in  the  flour ;  dropped  in  a  little  salt  and  re 
turned  to  the  kitchen,  all  in  five  minutes,  without  having 
one  thing  out  of  place,  except  the  egg-shells,  and  those 
I  should  have  removed  some  other  time.  So  you  see 
instead  of  four  journeys  to  the  cellar,  two  to  carry  back, 
and  four  to  the  meal  room,  I  should  have  done  the  whole 
work,  saved  my  strength,  saved  the  wear  and  tear  of  my 
shoes,  saved  the  soil  of  my  dress,  saved  the  fire,  the  an 
noyance,  and  a  good  half-hour  for  something  else,  and 
had  a  better  mess  of  cakes  for  supper  in  the  bargain. 
And  this  is  only  one  half-hour  saved  in  getting  supper, 
by  one  hand.  It  took  three  that  night  longer  to  get  tea, 
by  one-half,  than  it  would  have  taken  me  to  have  got  it 
alone. 

"  But,  la  me  !  here's  the  baby  fast  asleep — the  peas 
are  all  shelled,  and  my  story  must  be  wound  up,  for  it's 


OH,    SING   TO   ME   SOFTLY,    MY    SISTER.  4.1 

time  to  'whey  off  the  curd.'  If  this  bit  of  experience 
does  y«i>  any  good,  I  will  tell  you  another  story  some 
I*-/ 


OH,  SING  TO  ME  SOFTLY,  MY  SISTER. 

On  !  Bing  to  me  softly,  my  sister, 
And  smile  on  me,  darling,  to-night, 

For  my  soul  is  encompassed  by  darkness, 
And  shut  from  the  kingdom  of  light  1 

I  walk  in  life's  valley  of  shadows, 

Where  the  fountain's  low  murmurs  are  still, 
Where  swiftly  through  gray  mist  and  vapour, 

Are  gliding  pale  phantoms  of  ill. 

Thy  voice,  like  the  clear  thread  of  silver, 
That  winds  through  the  still  grassy  lane, 

Shall  steal  through  my  heart's  silent  chambers, 
And  waken  their  music  again. 

Far  away  from  the  clouds  of  the  present, 

In  the  Eden  of  memory's  isle, 
What  visions  of  peace  and  of  beauty, 

Shall  my  spirit  of  sadness  beguile  ! 

Once  more  I  will  rove  with  sweet  fancies, 
And  think  the  sweet  thoughts  of  a  child, 

Once  more  I  will  gather  Youth's  roses, 
The  fairer  because  they  are  wild. 

And  the  light  which  I  know  is  immortal, 
That  shone  on  young  life's  dewy  hour, 

Shall  steal  from  its  crystalline  portal, 
And  brighten  fair  memory's  bower. 


42  AN    EVENING   AT    HOME. 

Then  sing  to  me  softly,  my  sister, 
And  pour  out  thy  heart  in  the  strain, 

Till  I  dream  that  the  beautiful  voices 
Of  childhood  are  singing  again. 

So  my  heart  shall  grow  better  and  purer, 
And  strength  to  us  both  shall  be  given, 

To  work  out  a  priceless  salvation, 

And  sing  with  our  children  in  Heaven  1 


AN  EVENING  AT  HOME. 

going  to  the  ball!"  said  Mrs.  Lindley,  with  a 
look  and  tone  of  surprise.  "What  has  come  over  the 
girl?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  she  says  she's  not  going." 

"Doesn't  her  ball  dress  fit?" 

"Yes,  beautifully." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  then  ?" 

"  Indeed,  ma,  I  cannot  tell.  You  had  better  go  up 
and  see  her.  It  is  the  strangest  notion  in  the  world. 
Why,  you  couldn't  hire  me  to  stay  at  home." 

Mrs.  Lindley  went  up  stairs,  arid  entering  her  daugh 
ter's  room,  found  her  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  with 
a  beautiful  ball  dress  in  her  hand. 

"  It  isn't  possible.  Helen,  that  you  are  not  going  to 
this  ball  ?"  she  said. 

Helen  looked  up  with  a  half-serious,  half-smiling  ex 
pression  on  her  face. 

"I've  been  trying,  for  the  last  half  hour,"  she  replied. 


AN    EVENING   AT    HOME.  43 

"  to  decide  whether  I  ought  to  go  or  stay  at  home.  I 
think,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  remain  at  home." 

"But  what  earthly  reason  can  you  have  for  doing  so  ! 
Don't  you  like  your  dress  ?" 

"  O  yes !  very  much.     I  think  it  beautiful." 

"Doesn't  it  fit  you?" 

"  As  well  as  any  dress  I  ever  had." 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?" 

"Very  well." 

"Then  why  not  go  to  the  ball  ?  It  will  be  the  largest 
and  most  fashionable  of  the  season.  You  know  that 
your  father  and  myself  are  both  going.  We  shall  want 
to  see  you  there,  of  course.  Your  father  will  require 
some  very  good  reason  for  your  absence." 

Helen  looked  perplexed  at  her  mother's  last  remark. 

"  Do  you  think  father  will  be  displeased  if  I  remain 
at  home?"  she  asked. 

"  I  think  he  will,  unless  you  can  satisfy  him  that  your 
reason  for  doing  so  is  a  very  good  one.  Nor  shall  I  feel 
that  you  are  doing  right.  I  wish  all  my  children  to  act 
under  the  government  of  a  sound  judgment.  Impulse, 
or  reasons  not  to  be  spoken  of  freely  to  their  parents, 
should  in  no  case  influence  their  actions." 

Helen  sat  thoughtful  for  more  than  a  minute,  and  then 
said,  her  eyes  growing  dim  as  she  spoke, 

"I  wish  to  stay  at  home  for  Edward's  sake." 

"And  why  for  his,  my  dear?" 

"  He  doesn't  go  to  the  ball,  you  know." 

"  Because  he  is  too  young,  and  too  backward.  You 
couldn't  hire  him  to  go  there.  But  that  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  remain  at  home.  You  would  never  par- 


44  AN    EVENING   Af   HOME. 

take  of  any  social  amusement,  were  this  always  to  'a flu 
ence  you.  Let  him  spend  the  evening  in  reading.  IIo 
must  not  expect  his  sisters  to  deny  themselves  all  recre 
ation  in  which  he  cannot  or  will  not  participate." 

"  He  does  not.  I  know  he  would  not  hear  to  such  a 
thing  as  my  staying  at  home  on  his  account." 

"Then  why  stay?" 

"  Because  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  do  so.  This  is  the 
way  I  have  felt  all  day  whenever  I  have  thought  of  go 
ing.  If  I  were  to  go,  I  know  that  I  would  not  have  a 
moment's  enjoyment.  He  need  not  know  why  I  remain 
at  home.  To  tell  him  that  I  did  not  wish  to  go  will 
satisfy  his  mind." 

"I  shall  not  urge  the  matter,  Helen,"  Mrs.  Lindley 
said,  after  a  silence  of  some  moments.  "  You  are  old 
enough  to  judge  in  a  matter  of  this  kind  for  yourself. 
But,  I  must  say,  I  think  you  rather  foolish.  You  will 
not  find  Edward  disposed  to  sacrifice  so  much  for  you." 

"  Of  that  I  do  not  think,  mother.  Of  that  I  ought 
not  to  think." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Well,  you  may  do  as  you  like.  But 
I  don't  know  what  your  father  will  say." 

Mrs.  Lindley  then  left  the  room. 

Edward  Lindley  was  at  the  critical  age  of  eighteen ; 
that  period  when  many  young  men,  especially  those  who 
have  been  blessed  with  sisters,  would  have  highly  enjoyed 
a  ball.  But  Edward  was  shy,  timid,  and  bashful  in 
company,  and  could  hardly  ever  be  induced  to  go  out  to 
parties  with  his  sisters.  Still,  he  was  intelligent  for  his 
years,  and  companionable.  His  many  good  qualities 


AN   EVENING   AT    HOME.  45 

endeared  him  to  his  family,  and  drew  forth  from  his  sis 
ters  towards  him  a  very  tender  regard. 

Amonsj  his  male  friends  were  several  about  his  own 
age,  members  of  families  with  whom  his  own  was  on 
friendly  terms.  With  these  he  associated  frequently, 
and,  with  two  or  three  others,  quite  intimately.  For  a 
month  or  two  Helen  noticed  that  one  or  another  of  these 
young  friends  called  every  now  and  then  for  Edward,  in 
the  evening,  and  that  he  went  out  with  them  and  stayed 
until  bedtime.  But,  unless  his  sisters  were  from  home, 
he  never  went  of  his  own  accord.  The  fact  of  his  beirio1 

o 

out  with  these  young  men,  had,  from  the  first,  troubled 
Helen ;  though,  the  reason  of  her  feeling  troubled  she 
could  not  tell.  Edward  had  good  principles,  and  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  entertain  fears  of  any  clearly 
defined  evil.  Still  a  sensation  of  uneasiness  was  always 
produced  when  he  was  from  home  in  the  evening. 

Her  knowing  that  Edward  would  go  out,  after  they 
had  all  left,  was  the  reason  why  Helen  did  not  wish  to 
attend  the  ball.  The  first  thought  of  this  had  produced 
an  unpleasant  sensation  in  her  mind,  which  increased 
the  longer  she  debated  the  question  of  going  away  or 
remaining  at  home.  Finally,  she  decided  that  she  would 
not  go.  This  decision  took  place  after  the  interview 
with  her  mother,  which  was  only  half  an  hour  from  thp 
time  of  starting. 

Edward  knew  nothing  of  the  intention  of  his  sister. 
He  was  in  his  own  room,  dressing  to  go  out,  and  sup 
posed,  when  he  heard  the  carriage  drive  from  the  door, 
that  Helen  had  gone  with  the  other  members  of  the 
family.  On  descending  to  the  parlour,  he  was  surprised 


46  AN    EVENING   AT   HOME. 

to  find  her  sitting  by  the  centre-table,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand. 

"Helen  !  Is  this  you?  I  thought  you  had  gone  to 
the  ball !  Are  you  not  well?"  he  said  quickly  and  with 
eurprise,  coming  up  to  her  side. 

"  I  am  very  well,  brother,"  she  replied,  looking  into 
his  face  with  a  smile  of  sisterly  regard.  "  But  I  have 
concluded  to  stay  at  home  this  evening.  I'm  going  to 
keep  you  company." 

"  Are  you,  indeed  !  Right  glad  am  I  of  it !  though 
I  am  sorry  you  have  deprived  yourself  of  the  pleasure 
of  this  ball,  which,  I  believe,  is  to  be  a  very  brilliant 
one.  I  was  just  going  out,  because  it  is  so  dull  at  home 
when  you  are  all  away." 

"  I  am  not  particularly  desirous  of  going  to  the  ball. 
So  little  so,  that  the  thought  of  your  being  left  here 
all  alone  had  sufficient  influence  over  me  to  keep  me 
away." 

"Indeed!  Well,  I  must  say  you  are  kind,"  Edward 
returned,  with  feeling.  The  self-sacrificing  act  of  his 
sister  had  touched  him  sensibly. 

Both  Helen  and  her  brother  played  well.  She  upon 
the  harp  and  piano,  and  he  upon  the  flute  and  violin. 
Both  were  fond  of  music,  and  practised  and  played  fre 
quently  together.  Part  of  the  evening  was  spent  in  this 
way,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  each.  Then  an  hour 
passed  in  reading  and  conversation,  after  which,  musio 
was  again  resorted  to.  Thus  lapsed  the  time  pleasantly 
until  the  hour  for  retiring  came,  when  they  separated, 
both  with  an  internal  feeling  of  pleasure  more  delightful 
than  they  had  experienced  for  a  long  time.  It  waa 


AX   EVENING   AT   HOME.  47 

nearly  threj  o'clock  before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lindley,  and 
the  daughter  who  had  accompanied  them  to  the  ball, 
came  home.  Hours  before,  the  senses  of  both  Edward 
and  Helen  had  been  locked  in  forgetfulness. 

Time  passed  on.  Edward  Lindley  grew  up  and  be 
came  a  man  of  sound  principles — a  blessing  to  his  family 
and  society.  He  saw  his  sisters  well  married  ;  and 
he  himself,  finally,  led  to  the  altar  a  lovely  maiden.  She 
made  him  a  truly  happy  husband.  On  the  night  of  his 
wedding,  as  he  sat  beside  Helen,  he  paused  for  some 
time,  in  the  midst  of  a  pleasant  conversation,  thought 
fully.  At  last  he  said, 

"  Do  you  remember,  sister,  the  night  you  stayed  home 
from  the  ball  to  keep  me  company?" 

"  That  was  many  years  ago.  Yes,  I  remember  it  very 
well,  now  you  have  recalled  it  to  my  mind." 

"  I  have  often  since  thought,  Helen,"  he  said,  with  a 
serious  air,  "that  by  the  simple  act  of  thus  remaining 
at  home  for  my  sake,  you  were  the  means  of  saving  me 
from  destruction." 

"  How  so  ?"  asked  the  sister. 

"  I  was  just  then  beginning  to  form  an  intimate  asso 
ciation  with  young  men  of  my  own  age,  nearly  all  of 
whom  have  since  turned  out  badly.  I  did  not  care  a 
great  deal  about  their  company  •  still,  I  liked  society, 
and  used  to  be  with  them  frequently — especially  when 
you  and  Mary  went  out  in  the  evening.  On  the  night 
of  the  ball  to  which  you  were  going,  these  young  men 
had  a  supper,  and  I  was  to  have  been  with  them.  I  did 
not  wish  particularly  to  join  them,  but  preferred  doing 
eo  to  remaining  at  home  alone.  To  find  you,  as  I  did, 


48  AN    EVENING    AT    HOME. 

so  unexpectedly,  in  the  parlour,  was  an  agreeable  sur 
prise  indeed.  I  stayed  at  home  with  a  new  pleasure, 
•which  was  heightened  by  the  thought,  that  it  was  yonr 
love  for  me  that  had  made  you  deny  yourself  for  my 
gratification.  We  read  together  on  that  evening,  we 
played  together,  AVC  talked  of  many  things.  In  your 
mind  I  had  never  before  seen  so  much  to  inspire  my 
own  with  high  and  pure  thoughts.  I  remembered  tlni 
conversation  of  the  young  men  with  whom  I  had  been 
associating,  and  in  which  I  had  taken  pleasure,  with 
something  like  disgust.  It  was  low,  sensual,  and  too 
much  of  it  vile  and  demoralizing.  Never,  from  that 
hour.;  did  I  join  them.  Their  way,  even  in  the  early 
Btage  of  life's  journey,  I  saw  to  be  downward,  and  down 
ward  it  has  ever  since  been  tending.  How  often  since 
have  I  thought  of  that  point  in  time,  so  full-fraught  with 
good  and  evil  influences  !  Those  few  hours  spent  with 
you  seemed  to  take  scales  from  my  eyes.  I  saw  with  a 
new  vision.  I  thought  and  felt  differently.  Had  you 
gone  to  the  ball,  and  I  to  meet  those  young  men,  no  one 
can  tell  what  might  not  have  been  the  consequences. 
Sensual  indulgences,  carried  to  excess,  amid  songs  and 
sentiments  calculated  to  awaken  evil  instead  of  good 
feelings,  might  have  stamped  upon  my  young  and  deli 
cate  mind  a  bias  to  low  affections  that  never  would  have 
been  eradicated.  That  was  the  great  starting-point  in 
life — the  period  when  I  was  coming  into  a  state  of  ra 
tionality  and  freedom.  The  good  prevailed  over  tho 
evil,  and  by  the  agency  of  my  sister,  as  an  angel  sent 
by  the  Author  of  all  benefits  to  save  me." 

Like  Helen  Lindley,  let  every  elder  sister  be  thought- 


AN   EVENING   AT    HOME.  49 

Ful  of  her  brothers  at  that  critical  period  in  life,  when 
the  boy  is  about  passing  up  to  the  stage  of  manhood, 
tnd  she  may  save  them  from  many  a  snare  set  for  their 
imvary  feet  by  the  evil  one.  In  closing  this  little 
•ketch,  we  can  say  nothing  better  than  has  already 
Wen  said  by  an  accomplished  American  authoress,  Mrs. 
Ferrar. 

"  So  many  temptations,"  she  says,  "beset  young  men, 
of  which  young  women  know  nothing,  that  it  is  of  the 
utmost  importance  that  your  brothers'  evenings  should 
be  happily  passed  at  home,  that  their  friends  should  be 
your  friends,  that  their  engagements  should  be  the  same 
as  yours,  and  that  various  innocent  amusements  should 
be  provided  for  them  in  the  family  circle.  Music  is  an 
accomplishment  chiefly  valuable  as  a  home  enjoyment, 
as  rallying  round  the  piano  the  various  members  of  a 
family,  and  harmonizing  their  hearts  as  well  as  voices, 
particularly  in  devotional  strains.  I  know  no  more 
agreeable  and  interesting  spectacle  than  that  of  brothers 
and  sisters  playing  and  singing  together  those  elevated 
compositions  in  music  and  poetry  which  gratify  the  taste 
and  purify  the  heart,  while  their  fond  parents  sit  de 
lighted  by.  I  have  seen  and  heard  an  elder  sister  thus 
loading  the  family  choir,  who  was  the  soul  of  harmony 
to  the  whole  household,  and  whose  life  was  a  perfect  ex 
ample  of  those  virtues  which  I  am  here  endeavouring  to 
inculcate.  Let  no  one  say,  in  reading  this  chapter,  that 
too  much  is  here  required  of  sisters,  that  no  one  can  be 
expected  to  lead  such  a  self-sacrificing  life ;  for  the 
sainted  one  to  whom  I  refer  was  all  I  would  ask  any  sis 
ter  to  be,  and  a  happier  person  never  lived.  To  do  good 
4 


50  TWO    YEARS   OLD. 

and  to  make  others  happy  was  her  rule  of  life,  and  iii 
this  she  found  the  art  of  making  herself  so. 

"  Sisters  should  always  be  willing  to  walk,  ride,  visit 
with  their  brothers,  and  esteem  it  a  privilege  to  be  their 
companions.  It  is  worth  while  to  learn  innocent  games 
for  the  sake  of  furnishing  brothers  with  amusements,  and 
making  home  the  most  agreeable  place  to  them 

"  I  have  been  told  by  some  who  have  passed  unharmed 
through  the  temptations  of  youth,  that  they  owed  their 
escape  from  many  dangers  to  the  intimate  .companion 
ship  of  affectionate  and  pure-minded  sisters.  They  have 
been  saved  from  a  hazardous  meeting  with  idle  company 
by  some  home  engagement,  of  which  their  sisters  were 
the  charm ;  they  have  refrained  from  mixing  with  the 
impure,  because  they  would  not  bring  home  thoughts 
and  feelings  which  they  could  not  share  with  those  trust 
ing,  loving  friends ;  they  have  put  aside  the  wine-cup, 
and  abstained  from  stronger  potations,  because  they 
would  not  profane  with  their  fumes  the  holy  kiss,  with 
which  they  were  accustomed  to  bid  their  sisters  good 
night." 


TWO   YEARS  OLD. 

PLAYING  on  the  carped  near  me 

Is  a  little  cherub  girl ; 
And  her  presence,  much  I  fear  me, 

Sets  my  senses  in  a  whirl ; 
For  a  book  is  open  lying, 
Full  of  grave  philosophying, 
And  I  own  I'tu  vaiuly  trying 


TWO   YEARS   OLD.  II 

iiiere  my  thoughts  to  hold  ; 
But,  in  spite  of  my  essaying, 
They  will  ever  more  be  straying 
To  that  cherub  near  me  playing, 

Only  two  years  old ! 

With  her  hair  so  long  and  flaxen, 

And  her  sunny  eyes  of  blue, 
And  her  cheek  so  plump  and  waxen, 

She  is  charming  to  the  view. 
Then  her  voice,  to  all  who  hear  it, 
Breathes  a  sweet,  entrancing  spirit— 
0 1  to  be  for  ever  near  it 

Is  a  joy  untold  ; 
For  'tis  ever  sweetly  telling 
To  my  heart,  with  rapture  swelling, 
Of  affection  inly  dwelling — 

Only  two  years  old  ! 

With  a  new  delight  I'm  hearing 

All  her  sweet  attempts  at  words, 
In  their  melody  endearing 

Sweeter  far  than  any  bird's  ; 
And  the  musical  mistaking 
Which  her  baby  lips  are  making, 
For  my  heart  a  charm  is  waking, 

Firmer  in  its  hold 

Than  the  charm  so  rich  and  glowing, 
From  the  Roman's  lips  o'erflowing ; 
Then  fche  gives  a  look  so  knowing — • 

Only  two  years  old  ! 

Now  her  ripe  and  honeyed  kisses 

(Honeyed,  ripe  for  me  alone) 
Thrill  my  soul  with  varied  blisse* 

Venus  never  yet  has  known 


62  A   THIMBLE-FULL   OF   ROMANCE. 

When  her  twining  arms  are  round  me 
AU  domestic  joy  has  crowned  mt>, 
And  a  fervent  spell  has  bound  me, 

Never  to  grow  cold. 
0 1  there  is  not,  this  side  of  Adenn, 
Aught  with  loveliness  so  laden 
Aa  my  little  cherub  maiden, 

Only  two  years  old ! 


A  THIMBLE-FULL  OF  ROMANCE. 

TilE  tailor's  wife  had  stitched  since  five  in  the  morn 
ing.  It  was  now  noon — the  day  after  Christmas-day, 
and  there  really  was  something  for  dinner.  The  tailor 
was  from  home — the  children  were  out,  but  it  was  close 
upon  twelve  o'clock,  and  in  a  trice  they  would  be  back, 
eager  and  hungry  for  their  meal.  Mrs.  Atkins  put  doAvn 
her  work — a  very  handsome  waistcoat  of  sky-blue  satin, 
sprinkled  with  stars,  and  bordered  it  might  be  with  the 
zodiac  (the  border  was  so  strangely  beautiful), — clapped 
her  thimble  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  hurried  to  the  cup 
board.  At  all  events,  there  was  a  dinner  to-day ;  and 
something  seemed  to  promise  to  the  tailor's  wife  a 
brighter  time,  and  a  fuller  table  for  the  time  to  come. 

Atkins  had  gone  to  make  inquiry  about  a  ship  that 
was  to  sail  for  the  other  side  of  the  world ;  and  though 
be  had  not  at  that  time  a  single  piece  of  Queen  Victoria's 
minted  gold,  to  purchase  a  passage  for  himself  and 
family,  he  nevertheless  would  learn  aU  the  particulars 
of  cost  and  necessary  preparation.  It  was  a  whim,  h« 


A   THIMBLE-FULL   OF  ROMANCE.  O3 

for  all  that,  it  was  a  whim  that  controlled  him 
beyond  his  powers  of  self-argument,  had  he  tried  to  ex- 
erf-se  them. 

And  all  alone,  Mrs.  Atkins  spread  the  table.  There 
was  a  piece  of  beef  left,  and  a  small  piece  of  plum- 
pudding  ;  and  still  the  pudding  remained  small,  although 
Mrs.  Atkins  turned  the  plate  that  contained  it  round 
and  round  half  a  dozen  times,  and  took  half  a  dozen  side 
long  looks  at  it,  as  though  endeavouring  to  behold  it  in 
the  most  improved  light.  But  pudding  is  not  to  be  thus 
magnified. 

The  table  laid,  Mrs.  Atkins  thought  she  would  exe 
cute  a  few  more  stitches,  filling  up  the  time  until  Atkins 
and  the  children  came.  As  Mrs.  Atkins  approached  the 
mantel-piece,  extending  her  fingers  towards  the  thimble, 
the  thimble — of  its  own  motion — fell  over  upon  its  side, 
with  one  distinct,  prolonged  sound,  as  from  a  silver  bell ; 
Mrs.  Atkins's  thimble,  by  the  way,  being  of  no  such  pre 
cious  metal,  but  of  working-day  brass.  Mrs.  Atkins 
drew  back  her  fingers  from  the  thimble  as  from  a  nettle, 
when  the  thimble — self-moved — rolled  off  the  mantel 
piece,  and  fell  upon  the  hearth.  And  then,  to  the  asto 
nishment  and  terror  of  Mrs.  Atkins,  who,  strange  to 
say,  could  not  at  that  moment  scream,  though  in  no  for 
mer  accident  had  she  failed,  when  otherwise  determined 
— then,  from  the  thimble  began  to  pour  forth,  in  small, 
quick  puffs,  smoke  of  silvery  clearness.  Mrs.  Atkina 
dropped  in  her  chair,  and  sat  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
thimble,  still  puffing  a  shining  vapour — puffing,  and  puff 
ing,  until,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  room  was  filled  as  with 
»  doud,  and  every  object  enveloped  in  it,  save  the  smal] 


64  A   THIMBLE-FULL   OF   ROMANCE. 

brass  thimble  that  glittered  like  a  speck  upon  the  hearth. 
In  the  midst  of  her  terror,  Mrs.  Atkins  thought  of  her 
little  bit  of  beef  and  fragmentary  pudding — but  they 
were  lost  to  her  sight,  muffled  up  in  one  white  cloud  that 
possessed  the  apartment. 

After  some  minutes  the  cloud  cleared  away,  slowly 
rolling  itself  up  in  the  chimney,  and  Mrs.  Atkins' 
brass  thimble  lay,  like  any  other  two-penny  implement, 
upon  the  hearth.  The  same  well-worn  thimble — the 
same  familiar  common-place  that  for  many  a  day  had 
armed  her  sempstress  finger. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Atkins  ?"  said  a  voice  from 
the  mantel-piece. 

Mrs.  Atkins  jumped  round  with  the  shortest  of  jumps. 
She  looked,  and  saw  a  gentleman 

Well,  he  was  the  strangest  of  gentlemen,  and  he  was 
in  the  strangest  position !  But  we  will  tell  every  tittle 
we  know  about  him. 

Measured  by  tailors'  measure,  the  gentleman's  stature 
might  have  been  about  six  inches.  A  gentleman  with  a 
very  clean  and  lofty  look ;  his  hair  an  iron  gray ;  with 
a  few  wisdom  scratches  made  with  an  iron  pen — the  sort 
of  pen  made  out  of  Time's  old  scythes — about  the  cor 
ner  of  his  eyes,  that  had  a  ceiling-ward  look  ;  a  look, 
moreover,  of  self-satisfaction.  He  was  very  soberly 
dressed  in  black — very  soberly ;  and  then  his  white ' 
neckerchief  was  white  and  pure  as  snowwreath. 

Mrs.  Atkins  thought  she  recognised  in  the  miniature 
man  a  well-known  face ;  one  of  those  countenances  that, 
like  a  royal  face  upon  a  shilling,  is  the  property  of 
everybody  who  can  possess  it.  She  hud  seen  a  picture 


A   THIMBLE-FULL    OF   ROMANCE.  55 

of  The  Poor  Man's  Friend,  and — no,  it  could  not  be  he ; 
it  was  impossible — nevertheless,  the  face  of  the  manni- 
kin  was  wondrously  like  that  flesh-and-blood  goodness. 

And  the  little  gentleman,  though  somewhat  uneasily, 
sat  among  a  sprig  of  Christmas  holly  that  was  upon  the 
mantel-piece ;  sat,  and  with  his  best  pains,  looked  secure 
amid  his  bower  of  spikes. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  take  a  chair,  sir,  or  this  stool  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Atkins,  as  she  passed  her  apron  over  a  three- 
legged  piece  of  deal, — "  you'll  be  more  comfortable,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  little  man  ;  his  face  puckered 
as  he  spoke,  and  shifting  uneasily, — "  thank  you ;  but 
people  condemned  to  live  in  thimbles  are  not  allowed  to 
be  comfortable." 

"  Poor  creatures  !"  cried  Mrs.  Atkins ;  "  it  must  be  a 
strait  lodging,  goodness  knows.  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing." 

"  Benighted,  darkened  being!"  cried  the  little  man 
in  black  ;  "miserable,  forlorn  person  !"  he  continued,  as 
though  from  a  platform ;  "  did  you  never  hear  of  Solo 
mon's  brazen  kettles  ?" 

"  Never,  sir,"  said  the  tailor's  wife,  with  great  humility. 

"Know,  then,  that  Solomon  has  at  this  moment  a 
thousand  brazen  kettles  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  and 
in  every  kettle  is  a  prisoner,  confined  for  no  good  he  has 
done,  depend  upon  it,  to  hear  the  sea  moan  and  roar, 
and  answer  it  with  his  groans.  And  as  in  brazen  kettles, 
BO" — and  the  little  man  sighed  heavily — "so  in  biass 
thimbles." 

"  I  don't  understand  a  word  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Atkins ; 
and  with  a  resolute  hand  she  took  up  her  thimble,  ant! 


56  A   THIMBLE-FULL   OF   ROMANCE. 

turned  it  over  and  over,  and  almost  unconsciously 
brought  the  thimble  to  her  nose.  But  it  did  not  smell 
of  sulphur — the  thimble  was  the  like  thimble  it  was 
before. 

"  For  ten  years  have  I  lived  in  that  thimble.  Ten 
years,"  cried  the  little  man — and  Mrs.  Atkins  stared 
now  at  her  visiter,  and  now  took  another  look  at  the 
thimble ;  and  then  she  courageously  thrust  her  thimble- 
finger  into  the  familiar  brass,  and  nodded  at  the  little 
man  among  the  holly,  as  much  as  to  say, 

"Now  you  are  well  got  rid  of,  I'll  take  care  you 
Bha'n't  get  in  again." 

The  little  man  seemed  to  understand  the  threat  of  the 
look,  for  he  said,  with  a  languid  smile, 

"  It's  no  matter  now ;  my  ten  years  are  up — my  time's 
out  to-day.  All  I  have  now  to  do  is  to  confess  my  past 
sins  and  the  sufferings  they  purchased  me,  and  then  I 
pass  to  peace.  I've  paid  the  penalty  of  my  selfishness, 
and  my  unquiet  ghost  will  cease  to  haunt  your  brazen 
thimble." 

"A  ghost!"  cried  Mrs.  Atkins.  "Well,  I  never 
thought  I  could  be  so  bold  to  a  ghost.  But  then,  to  be 
sure,  you're  such  a  very  little  one.  What  was  your 
name  ?" 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  small  man.  "I  was  called 
The  Poor  Man's  Friend.  And  I  can  tell  you,  Mrs.  At 
kins,  that  I  have  paid  pretty  sharply  for  the  vanity  and 
vexation  of  the  title." 

"That  is,  I  suppose,"  answered  the  spirited  little 
woman,  "  you  wasn't  his  friend  at  all  ?  Only  the  name, 
like?" 


A   THIMBLE-FULL   OF   ROMANCE.  67 

"Listen  to  my  story,"  said  the  little  gentleman,  again 
shifting  himself  among  the  holly  leaves.  "  I  was,  when 
I  was  alive  and  enjoying  my  proper  stature,  I  was  a 
man  of  exceeding  wealth.  Rich  indeed  was  I,  and  as 
everybody  tKought — and  at  last  I  got  myself  to  think 
83  too — very  good,  very  benevolent,  very  pious.  Indeed, 
I  had  the  habit  of  talking  so  much  about  the  duties  of 
the  rich  to  the  poor  that,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  never  could 
find  sufficient  time  to  perform  them.  Nevertheless,  I 
could  not  forbear  to  talk — it  was  so  pleasant,  so  easy, 
too ;  and  with  no  other  effort,  it  made  me  a  name  that 
smelt  among  my  particular  friends  like  a  nice  ointment." 

"The  more  shame  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Atkins.  "To 
get  a  good  name,  and  live  upon  it  and  do  nothing  for  it ; 
why  it's  worse  than  coining — yes,  passing  bad  money  ia 
nothing  to  it." 

"Very  true,  Mrs.  Atkins,"  answered  the  unruffled 
mannikin.  "  Very  true.  Yet  there's  a  deal  of  brassy 
character  passed  for  good.  And  it  may  sound  right 
enough  upon  the  world's  counter,  but  it  won't  do, 
Mrs.  Atkins,  when  the  angels  come  to  ring  it.  It  won't 
io,  ma'am." 

"I  should  say  not,"  replied  the  tailor's  wife,  with 
womanly  decision. 

"  And  so  I  found.  It  is  now,  madam,  ten  years  ago 
since  I  died.  If  you  doubt  me,  take  your  way  to  the 
cemetery.  There,  madam,  you  will  see  my  monument. 
There  is  no  mistaking  it — 'tis  such  a  handsome  thing, 
with  work  enough  in  it  to  have  kept  the  sculptor  and 
his  family  for  a  twelvemonth.  I  am  there,  ma'am,  in 
alto  relievo  in  four  compartments ;  and  in  all  four  my 


68  A   THIMBLE-FULL   OF    ROMANCE. 

likeness  by  lamenting  friends  is  considered  very  perfect, 
f a  one  place  I  am  giving  away  quartern  loaves ;  in  an« 
other  I  have  taken  off  my  own  coat,  and  am  serenely 
offering  the  garment  to  a  beggar ;  and  the  third — " 

"  I  recollect.  Good  as  a  picture  to  look  at  it — I  saw 
:t  with  Tom  and  the  children  one  Sunday.  Then  we 
could  get  a  walk  on  a  Sunday  ;  and  now  it's  no  walk, 
but  for  ever  stitch.  La,  bless  me !  and  that's  you  in 
that  monument !  Well,  I  never  !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  At 
kins.  "  And  now  I  recollect  what  a  lot  of  fine  stuff 
there's  writ  about  you." 

"Don't  name  it,  ma'am,"  said  the  little  man,  hastily ; 
"  even  as  I  am,  my  cheek  tingles  to  think  of  it.  And 
when  I  reflect — " 

"Never  mind  reflections  !"  cried  the  tailor's  wife,  wich 
decreasing  deference  towards  her  visiter,  "  but  come  to 
the  story  at  once.  How  did  you  get  in  my  thimble?" 

"  That  was  my  sentence — that  was  my  dreadful  pun 
ishment  !"  cried  the  little  man. 

"  Punishment !"  echoed  Mrs.  Atkins.  "  Well,  to  be 
sure,  little  as  you  are,  it  must  have  cramped  you  terribly. 
And  what's  so  very  droll,  I  never  felt  you  !" 

"But  I  felt  you — every  stitch,"  said  the  mannikin, 
and  he  seemed  to  wince  at  the  recollection.  "  However, 
to  finish  my  story.  You  must  know  that,  although  I 
talked  to  the  last  day  of  my  life  about  the  duties  of  the 
rich,  and  the  rights  of  the  poor — although  now  and  then, 
for  the  look  of  the  thing,  my  name  sparkled  in  a  guinea 
subscription  for  a  Home  for  the  Houseless,  or  some  such 
public  benevolence,  I  would  buy — buy  where  I  might — 
I  vould  buy  cheap.  Every  shilling  saved  1  considered 


A    THIMBLE-FULL   OF   ROMANCE.  59 

as  d  new  victory  over  the  extravagance  of  trade.  It  was 
not  for  me  to  inquire  about  wages — it  was  no  part  of  my 
economy  to  be  assured  that  the  journeyman  could  get 
his  shoulder  of  mutton  and  potatoes — " 

"  Shoulder  of  mutton  and  potatoes  !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Atkins,  as  though  she  spoke  of  culinary  marvels  of  Ma 
homet's  Paradise.  "  Well,  to  be  sure,  we  had  a  bit  of 
beef  yesterday,  but  before  then — " 

"  I  cared  not  if  you,  and  such  as  you,  lived  upon  bran 
and  water,  if  cheapness  were  in  the  stitches  of  my  coat 
— if  my  heart,  my  philanthropic  heart,  beat  beneath  a 
waistcoat  that,  for  economy  of  cost,  defied  competition." 
"  More  shame  for  you,"  said  the  tailor's  wife.  "Talk 
ing  of  waistcoats,  what  do  you  think  I  get  for  that  blue 
thing,  there  ?" 

"  Starvation  !"  answered  the  mannikin  ;  "  for  I  see, 
fine  as  it  is — oh,  I  know  the  sort  of  thing,  now — I  see 
it  is  one  of  the  glories  of  prime  cost  that  defy  competi 
tion.  A  pretty  breastplate  of  defiance,"  said  the  little 
man,  "  and  well  is  such  defiance  punished." 
"  How,  punished?"  asked  Mrs.  Atkins. 
"  That's  it — that's  the  marrow  of  my  story.  That  is 
the  why  and  the  wherefore  that  I  am  here.  At  this 
moment — now,  woman,  attend  to  me,  for  what  I  have  to 
say  is  worth  the  hearing — at  this  moment — there  are  the 
ghosts  of  not  less  than  ten  thousand  men  and  women- 
excellent  persons  when  alive;  the  very  pink  of  good« 
ness,  with  delicate  white  satin  feelings,  as  one  may  say— - 
ten  thousand  spirits  condemned  for  a  certain  time  to  be 
imprisoned  in  thimbles." 

"  In  thimbles  !"  exclaimed  the  tailor's  wife. 


60  A   THIMBLE-FULL   OF   ROMANCE. 

"  In  thimbles !"  repeated  the  miniature  of  the  de 
parted  poor  man's  friend.  "  And  their  prison  is  far 
worse  than  the  brazen  dungeon  in  which  Solomon  shuts 
up  his  genii ;  for  they,  at  least,  are  not  mocked  with  an 
open  cell — with  a  promise  of  liberty  never,  until  the 
appointed  time  be  come,  to  be  obtained.  Now  the  vic 
tims  of  the  thimble  may  not  budge.  They  have  em 
ployed  the  cheapest  thimble  when  alive,  and  the  cheap 
est  thimble  is  for  a  time  their  punishment  when  dead. 
My  time  is  up,  and  my  wounds  are  healing — but  how, 
for  these  ten  long  years — " 

"  That's  just  about  the  time — not  quite — Tom  and  I 
have  worked  for — " 

"  For  my  tailor  that  was,"  said  the  mannikin.  "  How 
for  the  time  have  you  tortured  me  !" 

"I — I  couldn't  do  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Atkins,  sharply. 

"  You  couldn't  help  it — 'twas  your  duty  and  my  fate. 
Thus,  for  every  stitch  you  took,  I  felt  your  needle-head 
go  clean  into  what  seemed  my  flesh.  And  my  sense  of 
feeling  was  sharpened  into  spiritual  suffering.  For  four 
teen  hours  a  day  have  I  felt — incessantly  felt — the  punc- 
turos  of  the  tormenting  steel.  Hundreds  of  thousands 
of  little  daggers  piercing  me  through  and  through,  and 
with  every  stitch  a  jerk  that  seemed  to  snatch  at  every 
nerve." 

"  Mercy  on  us  !"  cried  the  tailor's  wife. 

"Ay,  mercy  on  us!"  said  the  little  man.     "But  wo 
ask  mercy  in  vain  who  have  had  no  mercy  on  others 
Live  and  let  starve,  was  my  inner  creed ;  it's  a  wicked 
religion,  Mrs.  Atkins,  and  carries  its  after-punishment. 
And  depend  upon  it,  they  who  without  care  for  the  corn- 


MY   MOTHER.  61 

forts,  the  necessities  of  the  workers,  will  have  only  the 
cheapest  work,  big  as  their  names  may  sound,  and  large 
as  their  presence  in  the  world  may  be — their  souls  dwell 
in  a  thimble." 

And  here  the  little  man  vanished,  and  the  Dutch  clock 
struck  twelve,  and  Atkins,  with  a  brightened  face,  with 
a  child  in  either  hand,  and  two  following,  came  home  to 
dinner.  Now,  whether  Mrs.  Atkins  did  or  did  not  tell 
to  her  husband  her  interview  with  the  mannikin,  is  not 
here  or  elsewhere  the  business  of  RED  RIDING  HOOD. 


MY  MOTHER. 

IT  was  a  very  cold  day  in  December.  My  mother 
was  sewing,  and  my  brothers  and  mvself  were  very 
pleasantly  engaged  in  our  comfortable  sitting-room, 
when  my  mother  desired  me  to  go  to  her  room  and 
bring  her  a  part  of  her  work.  I  very  petulantly  ex 
claimed, 

"  Can't  Charles  go  ?    I'm  so  cold  !" 
"  No,"  said  my  mother,  meekly,  "  I  wish  you  to  go." 
This  irritated  me  very  much,  and  I  said, 
"I  always  have  to  do  everything,"  jerking  open  the 
door,  and  slamming  it  violently  after  me. 

My  mother  called  me  back,  and  I  stood  in  the  door, 
illowing  a  current  of  cold  air  to  blow  upon  her,  while 
«he  lifted  her  blue  eyes  to  mine,  and,  with  a  look  of  sad- 
aess  I  shaJl  never  forget,  said, 


2  MY    MOTHER. 

"  Soon  my  little  daughter  will  have  no  mother,  then 
she  will  feel  sorry  for  this  behaviour." 

I  started  up  stairs,  muttering, 

"  No,  you  won't  die ;  you  only  say  that  to  act  on  my 
feelings." 

I  returned,  handed  the  parcel  to  my  mother,  and  re 
mained  cross  and  sullen  for  some  time ;  yet  I  loved  my 
mother  very  much,  but  could  not  bear  to  yield  my  will 
to  hers. 

Several  weeks  passed  away — I  forgot  the  occurrence, 
nor  had  my  mother  alluded  to  it — when  she  was  taken 
suddenly  and  dangerously  ill ;  and  very  soon  all  hope 
of  her  recovery  was  gone.  Then  my  sin  rushed  upon 
my  mind,  causing  the  deepest  regret.  The  nature  of 
my  mother's  disease  caused  delirium  nearly  all  the  time, 
and  I  had  no  opportunity  to  ask  forgiveness.  I  -would 
sit  beside  her  bed,  while  tears  coursed  rapidly  down  my 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  would  be  fixed  upon  me.  But,  ah ! 
no  glance  of  recognition  ;  no  beaming  forth  of  a  mo 
ther's  love  was  there  !  Vacant,  vacant,  still  vacant  was 
that  gaze,  and  I  would  rush  from  the  room,  and  wish  I 
could  die  ! 

Once,  during  a  short  interval  of  consciousness,  she 
looked  round  the  room,  and  asked  for  me.  I  was  with 
my  brothers,  for  I  felt  as  if  I  must  constantly  watcb 
over  them,  and,  when  sent  for,  hastened  to  her  bedside 
But,  alas !  too  late  !  That  same  fixed,  vacant  stare  had 
returned,  nor  did  she  ever  again  recognise  me.  At  the 
expiration  of  eleven  days  from  the  commencement  of 
her  illness,  death  loosed  the  "silver  cord,"  and  "the 
weary  wheel  of  life  stood  still."  I  was  present  at  the 


MY    MOTHER.  Otf 

beginning  of  the  last  struggle,  which  was  long  and  very 
severe,  but  the  sight  of  his  almost  motherless  girl  was 
more  than  my  already  agonized  father  could  bear,  and 
he  sent  me  away.  I  sought  my  little  brothers  in  the 
sitting-room,  and,  as  they  hung  around  me  with  anxicua 
inquiries  about  our  dying  mother,  I  was  indeed  "sorry 
for  my  behaviour."  The  agony  I  endured  was  too  great 
for  tears  or  utterance,  and  I  thought,  when  all  was  over, 
and  my  father  led  me  to  look  upon  her  form,  as  it  lay 
calmly  and  peacefully  in  the  embrace  of  death,  with  a 
heavenly  smile  upon  those  lips  that  had  never  spoken 
aught  but  words  of  love  and  kindness,  that  my  heart 
would  break,  and  I  wished  it  might. 

When  I  pressed  my  lips  upon  that  marble  brow,  it 
seemed  as  if  its  icy  coldness  would  congeal  my  very 
heart's  blood;  and  I  thought,  "Oh!  if  my  blessed  mo 
ther  could  be  restored  to  me  for  even  a  single  month, 
that  I  might  anticipate  every  wish,  and  by  prompt  obe 
dience  and  love  show  her  how  inexpressibly  dear  she  was 
to  me,  and  how  sorry  I  was  for  past  follies  !" 

But  all  my  wishes  were  fruitless,  and  it  was  now  too 
late  to  repair  the  injury  I  had  done.  I  was  the  only 
daughter  and  eldest  child,  the  constant  companion  of 
my  mother,  who,  during  the  eleven  years  that  I  had 
lived,  had  kindly  watched  over  me,  and  instructed  me; 
nor  could  I  call  to  mind  a  single  instance  of  unkindnesa 
or  impatience.  When  I  did  wrong,  she  would  fix  her 
expressive  blue  eyes  upon  me  without  a  word,  while  the 
tears  would  glisten  in  them,  and  I  could  not  resist  their 
sad  reproof.  The  instance  I  have  named  is  the  only  one 


6-1  MUSIC   IN    FAMILIES. 

that  I  remember,  in  which  1  conducted  myself  so  badly 
towards  my  mother. 

Twenty  years  have  passed  since  then,  and  I  am  ny- 
Belf  a  mother,  but  that  meek,  sad  look,  and  tone  of 
Wounded  love  still  haunt  me,  and  of  all  things  I  regret 
having  done  in  childhood,  that  carries  with  it  the  deep 
est  sting.  I  have  often  seen  girls,  and  boys,  too,  act 
towards  a  kind  and  gentle  mother  as  I  then  did ;  and  if 
such  children  should  happen  to  read  this  true,  sad  story, 
I  beg  them  to  change  their  course ;  become  kind  and 
obedient  to  their  parents,  and  then  they  will  be  spared 
the  deep  sorrow  which  I  still  feel  when  I  think  of  my 
unkindness  to  my  departed  mother. 


MUSIC  IN  FAMILIES. 

THE  old  notion,  that  music  could  be  learned  only  by 
those  who  had  a  peculiar  gift  or  ear  for  it,  seems  to  be 
pretty  nearly  exploded.  It  seems  to  be  everywhere 
conceded,  by  those  who  have  paid  much  attention  to  the 
subject,  that  music  may  be  as  generally  and  as  success 
fully  taught  to  young  persons  as  other  branches  of 
knowledge.  There  will,  of  course,  be  different  degrees 
of  talent  and  aptness  to  learn  manifested  in  this  as  in 
everything  else,  and  the  amount  of  attainment  will  vary 
correspondingly.  But  does  it  follow  that  an  art  should 
not  be  taught  at  all,  because  the  highest  excellence  can 
not  be  attained  in  it  ?  Not  one  child  in  a  thousand  can 


MUSIC   IN    FAMILIES.  65 

excel  in  penmanship,  in  drawing,  or  in  mathematics. 
But  who  would  consider  that  a  sufficient  reason  for  not 
attempting  instructions  in  those  branches  ?  Since  the 
introduction  of  music  into  common  schools  in  this  coun 
try,  and  in  Germany  and  Prussia,  it  has  been  sufficiently 
demonstrated,  that  it  may  be  taught  with  as  much  suc 
cess  as  reading  and  writing. 

Aside  from  its  importance  as  a  part  of  public  worship, 
and  as  a  personal  accomplishment,  it  exerts  a  marked 
and  very  beneficial  influence  in  promoting  social  enjoy 
ment  and  kind  feeling  in  the  -family.  In  this  view  it 
presents  itself  to  parents  in  a  very  attractive  light. 

Music  serves  to  make  a  home  pleasant,  by  engaging 
many  of  its  inmates  in  a  delightful  recreation,  and  thus 
dispelling  the  sourness  and  gloom  which  frequently  arise 
from  petty  disputes,  from  mortified  vanity,  from  discon 
tent  and  envy.  It  prevents,  for  the  time,  at  least,  evil 
thoughts  and  evil  speaking,  and  tends  to  relieve  the 
minds  of  both  performers  and  hearers  from  the  depress 
ing  effects  of  care  and  melancholy.  Young  persona 
need,  and  will  have  amusements.  If  an  innocent  and 
improving  kind  be  not  provided  at  home,  they  will  seek 
for  some  kind  elsewhere.  If  they  find  places  more 
agreeable  to  them  than  their  homes,  those  homes  will  be 
deserted,  and  thus  the  gentle  and  holy  influences  which 
ought  to  encircle  the  family  fireside,  will  be  in  a  great 
measure  lost. 

The  discipline  of  the  heart,  afforded  by  music,  is  not 
unimportant.  It  is  a  language — an  expression  of  sub 
lime  thoughts  and  pure  affections.  It  is  a  heavenly 
employment — the  delight  of  angels  in  another  and  a 
6 


66  MUSIC   IN    FAMILIES. 

1/etter  world.  It  begets  and  perpetuates  love  ;  and  love 
ia  from  God.  Everything  which  promotes  affectionate 
intercourse  between  parents  and  children,  and  brothers 
and  sisters,  is  of  great  value  in  giving  purity  and  strength 
to  home  influences.  In  these  latter  days,  when  improper 
places  of  public  amusement  are  so  numerous  and  cheap ; 
when  vice  is  arrayed  in  all  the  charms  of  painting  and 
sculpture,  of  poetry,  eloquence,  and  music,  concerted 
and  vigorous  efforts  should  be  made  to  preserve  the 
young  from  their  pernicious  influence.  To  do  this,  they 
must  be  kept  at  home ;  'and  to  keep  them  at  home,  they 
must  be  made  to  love  their  homes.  To  secure  that  love, 
home  must  be  made  agreeable ;  and,  for  this,  music  is 
unquestionably  one  of  the  cheapest  and  most  efficient 
means. 

No  families  are  so  pleasant  as  those  where  the  voices 
of  parents  and  children  mingle  in  sweet,  solemn,  and 
exhilarating  sounds.  No  scenes  present  themselves  to 
the  memory,  in  after  life,  with  more  delightful  associa 
tions  than  those  in  which  favourite  tunes  and  fragments 
of  well-remembered  verse  are  connected  with  the  familiar 
faces  and  fond  endearments  of  the  domestic  hearth. 

Again,  music  is  not  without  use  as  an  intellectual  and 
also  as  a  physical  exercise.  The  study  of  it  as  a  science 
is,  perhaps,  as  good  discipline  as  the  study  of  other  sci 
ences,  for  it  exercises  the  same  faculties  of  the  mind ; 
while  the  practice  of  it  as  an  art  gives  flexibility,  clear 
ness,  and  strength  to  the  voice,  develops  the  chest,  and 
invigorates  the  whole  frame. 

A  strong  prejudice  against  music  has  arisen  in  the 
tainds  of  many  persons,  from  the  exctss  to  which  it  is 


DO   YOU    KNOV   WHAT   YOUR   CHILDREN    READ?  67 

Bomedmes  carried.  If  children  are  taught  to  sing,  it  is 
alleged,  they  will  be  so  fond  of  it  as  to  cause  it  to  inter 
fere  with  more  serious  and  weighty  matters.  In  some 
instances  it  may  be  so.  But  it  should  be  remembered 
that  the  objection  implies  the  abuse  of  a  thing  good  in 
itself,  and  applies  with  equal  force  to  social  visiting,  to 
reading,  and  every  kind  of  recreation.  Fruit  is  good ; 
but  to  be  indulged  in  with  impunity  it  must  be  eaten  in 
moderate  quantities  and  at  proper  times. 

So  with  music :  if  practised  to  such  an  extent  as  to 
cause  a  waste  of  time  needed  for  other  purposes,  or  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  be  a  pander  to  vice,  it  becomes  a 
source  of  corruption.  But  under  the  control  of  an  en 
lightened  understanding  and  conscience,  it  is  the  hand 
maid  of  virtue.  Like  woman,  another  of  Heaven's  kind 
gifts  to  man,  it  "doubles  our  joys  and  divides  our  (sor 
rows  ;"  and,  like  her,  too,  it  finds  its  most  appropriate 
place,  and  its  sweetest  influences,  in  the  bosom  of  the 
family. 


DO  YOU  KNOW  WHAT  YOUR  CIIILDKKN  READ  / 

NOT  many  days  since  we  saw  a  couple  of  young  lac-«?g 
returning  from  the  city  library  with  two  or  three  volurrea 
apiece,  which  they  had  selected  to  read,  or  to  be  read. 
In  looking  over  the  titles,  we  inquired  of  one  of  the 
ladies,  "  Does  your  father  allow  you  to  read  such  books  as 
these  ?"  Mark  the  reply.  She  said,  "  He  does  not 
know  it "  We  should  like  to  know  how  many  father* 


68          DO   YOU    KNOW   WHAT    YOUR   CHILDREN    READ  ? 

and  mothers  do  know  what  their  children  arc  reading, 
'ihe  facilities  for  obtaining  books,  periodicals,  and  papers 
never  were  greater  than  at  the  present  time.  Not  only 
good  books,  but  books,  publications,  and  prints,  of  the 
very  worst  kind,  are  sown,  as  it  were,  broadcast  over  the 
land. 

Publications  of  the  vilest  kind  are  eagerly  sought  by 
the  young,  and  at  an  age  when  they  are  most  easily 
ruined.  By  the  reading  and  perusal  of  «uch  books  and 
prints,  the  mind  is  filled  with  an  imagery  that  is  pon 
dered  over  until  the  heart  is  corrupted,  and  sleep,  even 
nature's  restorer,  is  disturbed  by  the  mind's  vile  imagin 
ings.  Impurity  of  thought  precedes  impurity  of  action  ; 
and  where  you  find  the  latter  it  may  not  unfrequently 
be  traced  to  the  reading  of  that  species  of  publications 
to  which  we  have  referred. 

It  cannot  be  regarded  by  any  thoughtful  parent  a 
matter  of  indifference  as  to  what  his  children  are  read 
ing.  No  parent  should  permit  his"  children  to  select 
reading  matter  from  any  public  library.  The  work  of 
selecting  books  to  be  read  by  children  should  always  be 
done  by  parents,  or  by  some  one  whom  they  can  trust. 

There  are  books  and  prints  in  circulation  among  the 
young  that  would  put  the  most  depraved  to  the  blush, 
that  is  to  say,  if  corruption  itself  can  be  tinged  by 
shame.  We  took  a  book  of  this  kind  from  a  pupil  in 
school,  and  consigned  it  immediately  to  the  fire.  The 
boy  was  very  indignant  at  the  time,  but  we  rejoice  to 
Bay  that  we  have  lived  long  enough  to  receive  his  most 
hearty  thanks  for  it.  It  was,  as  we  knew,  and  he  can 
see  it  now,  an  act  of  kindness  to  him.  The  book  was 


DO   YOU   KNOW    WHAT   YOUR   CHILDREN   READ  ?          69 

calculated  to  awaken  impure  desires,  and  to  feed  and 
nourish  them  until  they  should  manifest  themselves  in 
acts  which  lead  to  the  utter  ruin  and  destruction  of  both 
body  and  soul. 

How  many  a  child,  after  growing  to  manhood,  haa 
sought  an  opportunity  to  thank  his  parents  and  teachers 
for  like  restraints  which  at  the  time  seemed  cruel  and 
unkind  !  The  child  will  seek  eagerly  that  which  his  pas 
sions  and  appetite  urge  him  to,  without  any  reference  to 
the  future.  Being  without  knowledge  and  experience 
sufficient  to  guide  him,  he  must  be  directed  by  his  pa 
rents  and  teachers.  If  they  fail  through  indulgence  to 
guide  him  aright,  such  parents  and  teachers  will  receive, 
as  is  their  most  just  due,  the  curses  of  snob  children  in 
manhood  as  have  been  thus  ruined. 

If  a  child,  who  has  a  desire  to  read,  has  acquired  a 
taste  for  light  reading,  and  has  free  access  to  a  public 
library  well  stored  with  such  books,  he  will  read  little 
else  than  what  he  ought  not  to  read,  and  the  more  he 
reads  the  less  intellectual  power  be  seems  to  have,  until, 
as  is  not  unfrequently  the  case,  he  becomes  a  fit  inmate 
for  the  insane  asylum. 

What  we  would  impress  upon  parents  is,  that  they 
should  know  what  their  children  are  reading,  and  that 
there  should  be  no  occasion  for  them  to  say,  our  parents 
do  not  know  what  we  are  reading,  although  the  children 
know  and  confess  that  they  are  reading  what  their  pa 
rents  would  not  approve  if  they  knew  the  character  of 
the  books.  Parents  cannot  be  too  vigilant  in  the  dis 
charge  of  this  duty  to  their  children — nor  can  children 
be  too  thankful  for  having  parents  who  take  the  whole 


70  THE   PROGRESS    OF    GREEDINESS. 

oversight  of  matters  which  have  so  important  a  hearing 
upon  the  formation  of  the  character  for  all  the  future. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  GREEDINESS. 

THAT  much  of  our  happiness  and  well-heing  in  after 
life  depends  upon  education,  will  be  readily  admitted  by 
all — and  yet  how  few  of  those  who  have  the  care  of  chil 
dren  manage  them  properly  !  Most  people  lay  down 
general  rules,  which  they  apply  to  all  young  people 
indiscriminately  ;  never  reflecting  that  tempers  vary, 
and  that  the  management  which  succeeds  with  one  child 
may  have  a  very  different  effect  upon  another,  of  a  dis 
similar,  though,  perhaps,  not  a  worse  disposition,  which, 
by  a  more  judicious  mode  of  arrangement,  might  have 
been  led  into  amiable  habits.  Sometimes,  indeed,  vi-ces 
are  actually  induced  by  the  faulty  mode  of  treatment  of 
the  best-intentioned  people. 

I  do  not  think  I  was  actually  greedy ;  nay,  I  am  sure 
I  was  not  so ;  anxiety  for  my  health,  which  was  never 
theless  goqd,  although  I  never  was  a  robust  child,  led 
my  parents  to  be  particularly  careful  of  my  diet. 
"  Children  should  live  plainly,  and  not  be  permitted  to 
over-eat  themselves,"  they  said;  a  wise  rnaxim,  certainly, 
but  which,  notwithstanding,  should  be  followed  with 
caution.  I  was  never  to  be  permitted  to  taste  tea,  but 
ter,  pastry,  cheese,  beer,  cakes,  salad,  or  a  hundred 
other  every  iay  things,  which,  although  unwholesome  iu 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   GREEDINESS.  71 

any  quantity,  are  not  likely  to  do  much  harm  to  any 
child  that  takes  a  sufficiency  of  exercise,  if  eaten  in 
moderation.  For  some  of  the  above-named  delicacies, 
as  I  then  believed  them,  I  had  no  inclination — further 
than  that  which  leads  frail  human  nature  to  long  for  what 
is  rare  and  difficult  to  obtain — as  was  plainly  proved  by 
my  never  touching  many  of  these  said  dainties,  when 
there  was  no  longer  any  restriction. 

Perhaps  I  was  inclined  to  think  on  forbidden  fruit 
more  than  I  should  otherwise  have  done,  by  seeing  my 
companions — great,  strong,  healthy,  noisy  children — 
eating  as  much  as  they  pleased  of  whatever  came  before 
them  ;  and  hearing  them  express  pity  for  me,  as  a  poor 
little  half-starved  thing,  that  dared  not  live  like  other 
people,  and  would  in  consequence  most  likely  never 
grow.  My  chief  playfellow,  a  blowsy,  gross-feeding, 
romping  cousin  of  my  own,  without  the  slightest  inten 
tion,  used  to  mortify  me  continually.  She  ran  about 
without  bonnet  or  gloves,  late  and  early ;  I  was  always 
dressed  in  hat,  spencer,  walking-shoes,  and  all  the  et 
ceteras  ;  cautioned  against  going  on  damp  grass,  eat 
ing  wild  fruit,  or  walking  where  the  least  wind  could 
touch  me ;  while  Maria,  all  this  time,  bounding  about 
unchecked,  was  never  ill,  and  never  quiet.  She  was 
not  much  more  than  one  year  older  than  me,  but  a  full 
head  taller,  and  much  stouter ;  her  legs,  upon  which  she 
seemed  greatly  to  pride  herself,  almost  as  thick  as  my 
body,  and  her  arms  almost  as  red  as  her  cheeks.  By 
all  the  children  who  visited  us  she  was  preferred  to  me, 
for  she  was  extremely  good-natured ;  and  being  able  to 
go  anywhere,  used  often  to  leave  me  on  the  gravel- walks. 


1 2  THE   PROGRESS   OF   GREEDINESS. 

from  whence  I  durst  not  stir,  while  she  led  the  youthful 
band  to  gambol  about  the  grass,  cross  the  brooks,  laugh 
ing  and  screaming  with  delight ;  poor  little  me  standing 
solitary  and  mortified,  having  for  my  only  consolation 
the  nursery-maid's  remark: — "Never  mind,  Miss  Au 
gusta,  you  are  a  good  girl,  doing  as  papa  and  mamma 
bid  you,  and  not  following  the  example  of  these 
naughty,  noisy  children,  who  are  tearing  and  dirtying 
their  clothes,  and  who  deserve  a  good  whipping;"  or 
occasionally  overhearing  a  visiter — after,  however,  say- 
to  me,  "  Maria  would  make  two  of  you,  wRy  don't  you 
jump  about  like  her?" — observe  to  another,  "Augusta 
is  much  more  like  a  gentleman's  daughter  ;  Maria  is 
really  a  rough,  vulgar  little  thing,  although  a  fine  child." 
I  was  inclined  to  look  up  to  one  who  often,  in  the  kind 
ness  of  her  heart,  used  to  lift  me  over  puddles,  that  I 
might  extend  my  walk  without  danger  of  wetting  my 
feet,  and  pull  flowers,  which  I  was  never  so  expert  as 
herself  in  climbing  walls  or  rocks  to  attain,  lest  I  should 
fall  down  and  hurt  myself,  or,  what  I  dreaded  even  more, 
tear  my  frock  ;  and  as  she  had  a  great  many  brothers 
and  sisters  older  than  herself,  she  used  to  carry  off  their 
ideas  and  conversation,  and  repeat  them  to  me,  till  I 
thought  her  a  female  Solomon.  I  had  no  one  to  speak 
to  me  but  those  who  always  adapted  their  conversation 
to  my  age,  or  younger  than  my  age ;  so  it  was  not 
very  extraordinary  that  I  leant  to  the  positively  ex- 
pressed  opinion  of  my  young  cousin,  who  gathered  from 
her  family  that  health,  height,  thick  legs,  and  muscular 
Strength  were  the  most  noble  attributes  of  human  nature 
— t)  understand  all  country  matters,  and  sew  neatly, 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   GREEDINESS.  73 

the  most  desirable  accomplishments.  Alas !  for  me,  I 
had  nothing  except  the  first  of  the  requisites  to  hoast 
of ;  I  was  neither  tall,  strong,  nor  had  I  thick  legs, 
large  feet,  red  cheeks,  or  hrown  hands ;  I  hated  sewing, 
and  was  not  sufficiently  among  servants  and  work-people 
to  gain  the  sort  of  knowledge  which  I  was  told  was  most 
to  be  prized.  I  did  not  care  for  being  lady-like,  which 
I  fancied  was  synonymous  with  mental  and  bodily  weak 
ness;  and  I  became  quiet,  timid,  and  irresolute  in  com 
pany,  though  I  tried  to  be  as  noisy  and  vulgar  as  I 
could,  when  alone,  by  way  of  practice  ;  but  I  never 
could  somehow  be,  as  they  expressed  it,  like  "one  of 
them,"  which  I  regretted  at  the  time  as  sincerely  as  I 
have  rejoiced  at  it  since. 

But,  to  return  to  the  more  immediate  subject  of  this 
paper.  Of  the  injudicious  mode  in  which  my  eating 
and  drinking  concerns  were  managed  by  my  affectionate, 
but  not  quite  wisely-judging  parents,  I  may  enumerate 
some  needless  mortifications.  One  day,  I  accompanied 
my  mother  and  aunt  in  a  round  of  country  visits :  the 
first  place  we  went  to  was  Titchfield  Park,  where,  as 
there  were  young  people,  I  was  almost  immediately  car 
ried  from  the  drawing-room  into  the  school-room,  to  be 
played  with  and  caressed.  They  showed  me  their  toys 
and  picture-books,  gave  me  a  ride  on  a  rocking-horse, 
and,  on  parting,  a  large  slice  of  plum-cake  wrapped  in 
paper.  I  was  called  off  to  join  the  party  just  as  they 
were  stepping  into  the  carriage,  where  I  sat  at  their 
feet,  waiting  for  a  pause  in  the  conversation ;  when, 
proud  of  having  something  of  my  own,  something  to 
give,  something  to  bestow  on  elder  people,  I  held  up  my 


74  THE   PROGRESS   OP   GREEDINESS. 

piece  of  cake,  and  begged  them  to  help  themselves,  ex« 
ulting  in  the  gratitude  (which  I  thought,  comparing 
their  feelings  in  my  mind  with  what  I  knew  would  be 
my  own  in  the  same  case)  I  would  raise  in  their  breasts 
by  so  precious  a  gift ;  my  aunt  good-humouredly  smiled 
and  said,  "No,  thank  you,  love,"  went  on  talking;  but 
mamma,  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  my  treasure, 
cried,  "  Why,  Augusta,  who  gave  you  such  a  thing  ? 
How  very  imprudent  in  Miss  Titchfield  to  give  such  a 
child  a  large  piece  of  rich  cake  !  My  dear,  you  wi.l 
make  yourself  sick  ;  give  it  me,  and  I  shall  take  care 
of  it ;  you  shall  have  a  bit  every  day,  but  if  you  were 
to  eat  it  all  at  once  you  would  be  ill,  and  I  should  be 
forced  to  give  you  senna."  I  relinquished  my  cake  with 
a  heavy  heart,  and,  although  I  received  every  crumb 
most  regularly  in  the  course  of  five,  or  six  days,  my 
pleasure  in  the  possession  of  the  cake  was  gone,  and  I 
inwardly  resolved  not  to  offer  to  anybody  the  next  good 
thing  I  got  hold  of.  Sometime  afterwards,  I  forgot  my 
intended  prudence,  and,  being  deprived  in  a  like  manner 
of  some  nuts,  which  General  Tarrance  had  given  me,  I 
made  a  resolution  to  the  same  effect,  which  I  kept  bet 
ter.  Every  bit  of  cake  or  fruit  I  could  clutch,  I  ate 
secretly  and  quickly,  lest  some  one  should  find  it  out 
and  take  it  from  me.  I  was  afraid  to  offer  anything  to 
my  playfellows,  lest  they,  not  thinking  of  the  conse 
quences,  should  imprudently  betray  me.  Servants 
generally  like  to  indulge  children,  and  many  a  greasy 
potato  from  under  the  meat,  many  a  piece  of  baked 
paste  was  given  me  by  the  cook ;  and  I  still  look  back 
with  gastronomic  delight  to  the  fresh-churned  butter, 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    GREEDINESS.  75 

spread  upon  a  piece  cf  oat-cake  by  the  thumb  of  Tibby, 
the  dairy-maid.  I  have  never  tasted  butter  so  good 
since.  I  was  always  looking  for  something  to  eat.  I 
ever  roamed  about  seeking  what  I  might  devour,  from 
new  cheese  down  to  horse-beans.  These  stolen  indulg 
ences  did  my  body  no  harm,  but  the  effect  they  had 
upon  my  mind  long  remained ;  and  even  when  I  grew 
up,  and  was  introduced  into  company,  I  was  warned  to 
avoid  this,  to  take  little  of  that,  to  be  careful  of  indulg 
ing  in  the  other.  Could  any  one  suspect  the  unneces 
sary  feelings  of  mortification  entailed  upon  a  child,  in 
being  (even  when  kindly  used)  treated  differently  from 
other  children,  they  would  pause  before  they  inflicted 
so  cruel  a  wound  on  their  young  feelings. 

I  was  taken  to ,  to  see  a  grand  procession.     At 

the  house  where  we  went  to  there  were  several  young 
people,  of  my  own  age,  assembled  to  enjoy  the  sight ; 
and  left  together  we  soon  became  acquainted.  When 
we  had  strained  our  little  delighted  eyes  till  the  last 
ragged  urchin  of  the  rabble  that  followed  had  disappear 
ed,  we  turned  round,  and,  to  our  pleasure  and  surprise, 
discovered  the  table  covered  with  plates,  upon  each  of 
which  was  a  gooseberry  tart.  Few  of  the  elder  part  of 
the  company  were  in  the  room,  and  we  all  advanced, 
chattering  and  happy,  to  the  table.  I  among  the  rest, 
when  the  lady  who  was  in  the  act  of  presenting  a  tart  to 
me  was  stopped  by  another,  saying,  "  We  must  not  venture 
to  offer  Miss  Courtney  any  until  her  papa  and  mamma 
give  her  leave ;  here  is  some  bread  and  butter  to  eat  till 
they  come ;"  but  I,  annoyed  by  this  precaution,  and  the 
publicity  of  it,  answered  crossly,  "  I  mayn't  eat  butter, 


76   •  THL    PROGRESS    OP    GREEDINESS. 

neither."  "  Well,  then,  here  is  some  jelly,  my  dear." 
I  took  it  sullenly,  kept  it  some  time  without  even  tasting 
it,  but  at  last  hunger  prevailed.  The  rest  of  the  children 
had  demolished  their  tarts,  mine  remained  en  attendant 
my  parent's  return,  and  I  began  to  nibble  my  bread  and 
jelly.  At  last  my  parents  entered,  were  applied  to, 
gave  their  consent  to  my  having  the  gooseberries,  but  nol 
the  crust.  Everybody  said  I  was  a  good  girl  for  not 
crying,  and  for  refusing  the  forbidden  butter ;  but  nei 
ther  praises  nor  fruit  gave  me  any  pleasure ;  I  felt  myself 
an  unhappy  MARKED  child. 

That  this  love  of  eating  was  created  by  circumstances 
any  one,  with  much  power  of  discriminating  character, 
might  have  perceived  ;  for  when  I  had  a  story-book  which 
interested  me,  I  was  always  very  unwilling  to  leave  it 
for  a  dinner,  where  were  served  even  my  favourite  dishes ; 
still  there  was  always  so  much  talk  about  eating ;  every 
finger-ache  was  accounted  for  by  having  eaten  something 
that  was  too  rich,  or  too  strong ;  whenever  anything  was 
well  dressed,  it  was  so  praised — when  the  reverse,  so 
lamented  ;  the  tasting  this,  or  that,  made  such  a  favour, 
and  such  little  tiny  bits  given  after  all,  that  I  learned 
to  consider  eating  as  the  chief  good.  I  cannot  say, 
although  I  liked  good  things,  that  I  was  particularly 
dainty.  I  had  a  vigorous  appetite,  and  a  dislike  to  be 
different  from  others,  and  could  not  be  made  to  believe 
that  things  were  unwholesome  which  were  pointed  out  as 
such ;  as  I  knew  well  I  had  often  ate  butter,  cheese, 
fruit,  unknown  to  any  one,  and  in  large  quantities,  with 
out  doing  my  health  the  slightest  hurt ;  so,  in  more  ways 
than  one.  these  silly  restrictions  did  harm. 


THE   PROGRESS   OP   GREEDINESS.  77 

At  last,  in  consequence  of  an  addition  being  about  to 
be  built  to  the  house,  the  family  dispersed  for  a  time, 
and  I  was  sent  to  school  for  six  months,  to  be  out  of  the 
way.  At  first  the  mortification  I  endured  in  being 
treated  differently  from  the  rest,  was  very  painful  to  my 
feelings.  I  actually  longed  for  water  to  my  milk,  as 
well  as  butter  to  my  bread,  because  I  alone,  of  the  sixty 
assembled  at  Beech  House,  was  without  it ;  but  as,  after 
the  first  quarter,  nothing  more  upon  the  subject  was  said, 
I  was  permitted  to  fare  like  the  rest,  and  the  quantity 
of  stale  bread,  thinly  spread  with  salt  butter,  I  devoured 
was  incredible,  and  greatly  excited  the  wonder  of  my 
companions,  who  frequently  grumbled,  because  they  did 
not  live  so  well  at  school  as  at  home,  though  few  of  their 
papas  kept  their  carriage,  as  mine  did.  I  eat  myself 
stupid  every  Saturday,  upon  a  doughy  meat-pie,  made 
up  of  all  the  scraps  of  the  week,  and  became  so  fat  that 
when  I  went  home  at  the  holidays,  every  one  was  asto 
nished.  Any  one  would  naturally  imagine  that  the 
manifest  improvement  in  my  appearance  would  have 
opened  the  eyes  of  my  family ;  but,  no !  the  same  sys 
tem  recommenced,  and  I  soon  lost  my  flesh  again. 

When  I  married  my  present  husband,  whom  I  really 
loved,  one  of  my  matrimonial  castles  in  the  air  (well  may 
ye  start,  ye  romantic  young  ladies!)  was,  that  being 
mistress  of  store-rooms  and  closets,  I  should  be  able  to 
eat  all  the  nice  things  I  fancied,  as  often  as  I  pleased, 
without  restraint. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  no  sooner  did  I  feel  secure 
that  at  any  time  I  might  have  what  I  liked,  than  aU 


78  THE   PROGRESS    OF   GREEDINESS. 

desire  for  having  it  died  away,  and,  after  a  few  years,  1 
became  quite  abstemious. 

Profiting  by  the  mistakes  of  my  parents,  I  have  been 
careful  to  pursue  a  totally  different  plan  with  my  chil 
dren,  and  to  let  them  have  every  kind  of  food,  in  suffi 
cient  quantities,  and  without  remark  :  healthier,  happier 
children  I  never  saw,  and  none  of  them  are  the  least 
greedy. 

I  endeavour  also  to  make  them  as  comfortable  and 
independent  as  our  fortune  will  permit ;  I  allow  them 
to  have  things  and  places  of  their  own,  and  as  religiously 
respect  their  property  as  I  expect  them  to  do  mine. 
They  have  their  own  quiet  little  sitting-room,  and  when 
we  are  together,  at  meals,  or  in  the  evening,  I  promote 
mirth  and  innocent  amusement  to  the  utmost  of  my 
power.  I  think  it  would  require  a  very  strong  attach 
ment  indeed,  for  any  man  to  be  able  to  persuade  them 
to  exchange  their  father's  house  for  his.  Alas !  how 
many  unhappy  marriages  have  been  made,  for  no  worse 
reasons  than  a  desire  to  possess  a  home  where  they^  could 
feel  independent  and  comfortable.  "  I  wonder  what 
can  make  Dora  Maitland  marry  Mr.  Beecher,  good,  and 
good-looking  though  he  be,"  said  a  young  lady  of  my 
acquaintance,  who  was  evidently  very  anxious  to  be 
married  herself;  "she  and  her  sisters  have  such  a  nice, 
happy  home,  a  sitting-room,  a  pony,  a  garden,  liberal 
pocket-money,  and  all  they  want ;  were  I  as  comfortable, 
I  know  I  should  not  wish  to  be  married  for  a  long  time 
to  come ;  but  as  I  am  quite  different  at  mamma's,  and 
of  course  cannot  indulge  them,  I  am  so  very  uncom 
fortable,  that  I  shall  take  the  very  first  respectable  man 


THE  PROGRESS  OP  GREEDINESS.  79 

that  asks  me."  She  accordingly  married  a  very  cross 
aid  general,  much  her  senior,  and  was  extremely  un 
happy  for  six  years,  when  he  died,  leaving  her  an  easy 
but  not  large  income.  She  has  had  many  advantageous 
proposals  since,  but  resolutely  rejects  them  all.  "  Why 
should  I  marry,"  she  says,  "when  I  am  quite  comfort 
able?"  One  of  her  sisters  ran  off  with  a  lieutenant  in 
a  marching  regiment,  another  married  the  curate ;  both 
have  large  families,  small  fortunes,  and  cross  husbands  ; 
and  both  say  they  never  would  have  married  had  they 
been  happy  at  home ;  their  parents  were  good,  kind 
people,  but  made  no  distinction  between  a  daughter  of 
eight  years  of  age  and  one  of  eighteen.  Fathers  and 
mothers,  reflect  upon  these  truths,  and  reform  ere  it  is 
too  late  ! 

Dora  Maitland,  whose  marriage  to  an  amiable  young 
man  excited  the  wonder  of  the  ci-devant  Miss  Stevens, 
was  the  only  one  of  six  sisters  who  married  young.  Two 
of  the  others,  who  were  engaged,  waited  till  the  death 
of  their  parents ;  and  the  three  who  remain  yet  unmar 
ried  are  as  united,  independent,  and  happy  in  their 
sweet  little  cottage,  as  they  were  in  their  father's  more 
magnificent  mansion.  One  manages  all  out-of-doors 
concerns ;  another  the  house  and  servants ;  and  the 
youngest,  who  has  a  weak  ankle,  receives  the  company, 
writes  the  letters,  and  takes  care  of  the  library :  one 
docs  not  interfere  with  the  department  of  the  other,  and 
all  goes  on  smoothly. 

If  this  slight  sketch  will  induce  those  better  fitted  for 
the  task,  to  enlarge  upon  mistakes  in  education  by  well- 
meaning  parents,  I  shall  rejoice  in  having  written  this 
paper. 


THE  CRADLE  AWAY  UP  IX  THE  GARRET. 

IT  was  an  old-fashioned  little  cradle.  The  proud 
Haughter-in-law  would  scorn  to  have  it  in  the  nurserj. 
Her  children  sleep  in  dainty  cribs ;  and  the  relic  of 
olden  times  is  pushed  into  a  darkened  corner,  away  up 
in  the  garret.  It  is  a  quiet  autumnal  day ;  such  days 
are  full  of  memories  ;  and  the  old  grandmother  is  think 
ing,  thinking.  She  arises  at  length,  and  totters  up,  and 
up,  the  lofty  flights  of  stairs ;  she  passes  through  the 
elegant  rooms ;  she  gains  the  garret,  and  sinks  down 
beside  that  unsightly  cradle,  and  bows  her  trembling 
head  over  it,  as  if  watching  the  slumbers  of  a  babe. 
That  little  garret,  with  one  long  beam  of  sunlight 
streaming  from  the  high  window;  and  the  spider-webs 
woven  over  the  rafters,  and  one  cricket,  singing  lone- 
somely  from  some  silent  corner,  is  a  good  place  to 
dream.  Memory  is  unfolding  picture  after  picture,  for 
the  grandmother  to  look  upon. 

She  sees  a  cabin  home.  It  is  in  the  flush  of  summer 
time  ;  there  are  green  boughs  in  the  fireplace,  and 
around  the  clock,  and  over  the  mantel-board.  There 
are  short,  white,  muslin  curtains,  drawn  partially  across 
the  windows.  There  are  two  beds,  with  a  bureau  be 
tween,  standing  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  room  ;  and  a 
little  stand,  with  a  Bible  and  hymn-book  upon  its  white 
fringed  cover,  beneath  the  little  looking-glass.  There 
is  her  cupboard,  with  its  brightly-polished  pewter,  and 
the  pine  table,  scoured  by  her  own  hands.  And  she  is 


THE  CRADLE  AWAY  UP  IN  THE  GARRET.       81 

Bitting  by  the  window,  her  foot  gently  touching  that 
same  dear  little  cradle ;  and  her  eyes,  lifted  from  her 
sewing,  now  and  then,  to  see  if  her  heart's  prido  is 
coming.  How  deliciously  her  heart  is  stirred  to  the 
music  of  sweet  thoughts  !  It  is  her  first-born,  her  dar 
ling  Johnny,  sleeping  in  the  cradle.  Never  yet  have 
his  dewy,  rose-bud  lips  murmured  "mother;"  but  his 
dimpled  arms  clasp  her  neck ;  his  velvet  cheek  nestles 
against  her  breast,  his  clear  blue  eyes  look  lovingly  into 
her  own.  She  is  the  young  mother  again,  as  memory 
paints  that  sweet  baby  face.  She  hears  the  bees  hum 
ming  in  the  little  bed  of  pinks,  below  the  window.  She 
sees  the  shadow-leaves  of  the  Virginia  creepers,  playing 
upon  the  grass,  in  the  sunlight,  as  the  breeze  stirs  the 
long  clasping  arms  that  cling  about  the  rough  logs. 

She  hears  the  rivulet's  ripple,  as  it  winds  through 
mossy  spots,  and  leaves  the  roots  of  the  old  sycamore, 
whose  shadows  fall  upon  her  roof.  She  hears  the  birds 
singing,  away  off  in  the  woods.  She  sees,  oh,  best  of 
all,  her  husband  coming  home  from  his  daily  labour. 
His  step  is  on  the  sill,  his  merry  voice  speaks  her  name, 
and  then  little  Johnny  is  clasped  to  his  heart. 

Another  picture.  She  is  a  little  older  now.  It  is 
winter ;  there  are  drifts  of  snow  on  the  eaves ;  as  far 
as  she  can  look,  one  unbroken  mass  of  snow.  She 
hears  the  winds  moan  through  the  sycamore.  The 
flowers  are  dead ;  the  rivulet  frozen ;  the  birds  silent. 
But  there  is  a  bright  fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  cabin 
home  warm  with  its  crimson  light.  Johnny  is  playing 
with  father ;  and  a  baby  girl,  the  little  Lizzie,  is  in  the 
crad'e ;  fragile,  delicate,  beautiful ;  she  has  dark  eyes, 
6 


82       THE  CRADLE  AWAY  UP  IN  THE  GARRET. 

like  mother's,  only  they  bear  a  sadder,  softer  look,  and 
her  baby-smile  seems  sad  also ;  her  hands  are  clasped 
and  thrown  above  her  head,  and  she  smiles  in  her  sleep, 
as  if  the  angels  were  whispering  to  her. 

Another  picture.  It  is  in  the  month  of  May,  and  all 
aut  of  doors  is  so  beautiful.  Flowers  in  the  woodland ; 
birds  in  the  woodland  ;  joyous  music  everywhere. 
Everywhere  ?  No,  there  is  sadness  in  the  cabin- 
house.  There  is  another  babe  in  the  cradle.  It  is  ro 
bust,  and  the  blood  of  health  flows  in  its  veins.  It  is 
Charlie.  Why  are  they  sad,  then  ?  Johnny  sits  with 
his  face  hidden  in  his  mother's  bosom,  and  she  is  sob 
bing.  Under  the  front  window  is  something  covered 
with  white.  The  neighbour-women  are  moving  noise 
lessly  about,  speaking  but  little.  Lizzie  is  in  her  coffin. 
There  is  an  empty  grave  where  buttercups  dot  the  grass. 
Dear  little  Lizzie !  Joy  that  the  angels  took  thee  home 
so  early. 

Another  picture.  Johnny  has  grown  up  to  nearly 
manhood.  Charlie  is  a  stout,  merry  boy,  and  there  are 
others  about  the  fireside.  The  mother  is  a  good  deal 
older  now.  Her  hair  is  streaked  a  little  with  silver ; 
her  brow  furrowed,  and  her  cheek  very  faded.  There 
are  fair  daughters  and  sons,  that  have  been  born  unto 
her  since  Lizzie  died.  Grace,  with  her  dazzling  blue 
eyes  and  golden  hair ;  Mary,  with  sad,  dark  eyes,  like 
her  dead  sister ;  Annie,  with  her  lips  ever  dewy  with 
love  and  joy;  Reginald,  with  eyes  and  brow  so  like  his 
father's,  and  Louis,  the  youngest,  the  pet  and  the  dar 
ling.  An  unbroken  family,  but  not  for  long. 

Another  picture.     She  is  a  widow  now.     Her  beloved 


THE   CRADLE    AWAY   UP    IN    THE    GAKUET.  83 

Bleeps  with  little  Lizzie.  God  knows  how  bereft  she  is ; 
co  Him  she  looks  for  balm ;  to  Him  she  prays  for  her 
dear  children,  and  most  of  all  for  Reginald — the  proud, 
the  passionate,  wilful  Reginald.  Ah,  the  mother's 
heart  !  How  it  goes  with  her  children  •  How  it  would 
bear  every  pang,  that  they  might  be  saved  !  Yet,  how 
often  it  is  torn,  crushed,  broken  by  those  she  has  shel 
tered  in  her  bosom  !  God  pity  the  mother  whose  heart 
thus  beats  against  thorns. 

Another  picture.  Oh  God,  have  pity  !  The  Louse- 
hold  altar  is  almost  desolate.  Years  have  gone  by — • 
sad  years.  No  wonder  the  palsied  hand  trembles  as  it 
clasps  the  cradle.  No  wonder  tears  fall  where  sunny 
heads  once  nestled.  No  wonder  the  old  grandmother 
cries  out,  "  Father,  have  mercy  !"  for  she  feels  the  need 
of  strength  and  love.  Johnny  is  still  with  her ;  he  is 
growing  wealthy.  Mary  is  in  the  grave,  stricken  in 
early  womanhood,  when  life  seemed  so  bright.  Beauti-' 
ful  Grace  is  gone,  she  knows  not  whither.  Beauty,  to 
her,  was  a  curse,  and  she  fled  to  a  distant  Ir.nd  with  one 
fascinating  as  the  serpent,  but  already  wedded.  Annie 
joined  her  fortunes  to  one,  alas!  unworthy,  and  died  far 
from  her  mother's  house,  of  a  broken  heart.  Reginald 
went  into  the  gay  world — was  tempted — was  lost ! — and 
the  grave  of  the  drunkard  and  the  debauchee  closes  over 
his  bright  head.  Louis,  the  pet,  the  youngest,  is  win 
ning  himself  a  name  beneath  Italian  skies ;  the  beauti 
ful  life  of  the  poet-painter  is  his  own,  and  his  face  is 
inspired,  almost,  by  the  beautiful  associations  around 
him.  Over  the  ocean  do  his  mother's  prayers  often  go 
to  him. 


84  THE   HEAVENLY   SHEPHERD. 

Another  picture.  Oh  no,  it  is  too  real.  The  old 
garret — the  to-day — the  empty  cradle.  She  is  living 
with  Johnny,  in  his  costly  home.  She  is  considered  an 
intruder  by  the  daughter-in-law  ;  and  her  son — her 
Johnny — the  first-born,  whom  she  has  watched  over, 
and  cradled  on  her  breast,  and  loved  so,  says  :  "  Mother 
is  getting  to  be  quite  troublesome  ;  she  is  growing 
childish." 

The  desolate  old  grandmother  knows  this,  and  longs 
for  the  grave.  She  has  outlived  all  that  makes  life 
attractive.  God  compass  that  weary,  almost  worn-out 
heart  with  His  love,  and  take  her  to  His  house  of  many 


THE  HEAVENLY  SHEPHERD. 

WHEN  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled, 
And  tender  sympathy  upburst, 

A  little  rill  from  memory  swelled, 

Which  once  had  soothed  my  bitter  thirst. 

And  I  was  fain  to  bear  to  you 
Some  portion  of  its  mild  relief, 

That  it  might  be  as  healing  dew 
To  steal  some  fever  from  your  grief. 

A'ter  our  child's  untroubled  breath 
'flr>  to  the  Father  took  its  way, 

on  our  house  the  shade  of  death 
Like  a  long  twilight  hunting  lay ; 


THE    HEAVENLY    SHEPHERD. 

And  friends  came  round  with  us  to  weep 

Her  little  spirit's  swift  remove, 
This  story  of  the  Alpine  sheep 

Was  told  to  us  by  one  we  love. 

They  in  the  valley's  sheltering  care 
Soon  crop  the  meadow's  tender  prime, 

And  when  the  sod  grows  brown  and  bare, 
The  shepherd  strives  to  make  them  climb 

To  airy  shelves  of  pastures  green 

That  hang  around  the  mountain's  side, 
Whose  grass  and  flowers  together  lean, 
And  down  through  mists  the  sunbeams  slid*. 

But  nought  can  tempt  the  timid  things 
That  steep  and  rugged  path  to  try, 

Though  sweet  the  shepherd  calls  and  sings. 
And  seared  below  the  pastures  lie, 

Till  in  his  arms  their  lambs  he  takes, 

Along  the  dizzy  verge  to  go  ; 
Then  heedless  of  the  rifts  and  breaks, 

They  followed  on  o'er  rock  and  snow. 

And  in  those  pastures  lifted  fair, 
More  dewy  soft  than  lowland  mead, 

The  shepherd  drops  his  tender  care, 
And  sheep  and  lambs  together  feed. 

This  parable  by  nature  breathed, 
Blew  on  me  as  the  South  wind  free, 

O'er  frozen  brooks  that  float  unsheathed 
From  icy  thraldom  to  the  sea. 


86  HE   NEVER    KEPT    HIS    WIFE    WAITING. 

A  blissful  vision  through  the  night, 
Would  all  my  happy  senses  sway, 

Of  the  good  Shepherd  on  the  height, 
Or  climbing  o'er  the  stony  way, 

Holding  our  little  lamb  asleep  ; 

And  like  the  burthen  of  the  sea,  , 

Sounded  that  voice  along  the  deep, 

Saying,  "Arise  and  follow  me." 


HE  NEVER  KEPT  HIS  WIFE  WAITING. 

"  SHE  never  kept  her  husband  waiting,"  is  the  title 
of  a  piece  we  saw  in  an  exchange  paper.  We  wish  we 
could  say  the  same  of  all  husbands — they  never  keep 
their  wives  waiting ;  but  there  are  many — too  many — 
wives  who  burn  the  midnight  oil,  waiting  the  tardy  re 
turn  of  their  husbands.  Is  it  not  enough  for  a  half-sick 
and  weary  mother,  to  watch  the  greater  part  of  the 
night  with  a  sick  and  restless  infant,  but  she  must,  in 
too  many  cases,  wait  and  watch  many  anxious  hours  for 
him  who  ought  to  share  her  sorrows,  and  lighten  her 
cares  ?  He  is  enjoying  himself  away  among  some  con 
genial  friends,  while  she  is  at  home,  mourning  over  his 
coldness  and  neglect,  and  perhaps  weeping  over  a  frail 
and  drooping  child.  We  wish  none  but  drunken  and 
dissolute  husbands  kept  their  wives  waiting ;  but  it  is 
often  the  case  the  husband  is  thoughtless ;  perhaps  he 
meets  a  friend,  dinner  waits,  and  the  wife,  who  does  her 


HE    NEVER    KEPT    II1S    WIFE    WAITING.  87 

own  work,  is  wondering  what  can  keep  her  husband ; 
she  fears  something  has  happened  to  him.  He  surely 
would  not  make  her  wait  so ;  and  in  this  anxious  state 
she  waits,  hour  after  hour,  for  her  husband  has  been 
persuaded  to  dine  with  a  friend,  and  he  is  too  thought- 
,  less  to  send  his  anxious  wife  word,  and  she  spends  the 
•whole  afternoon,  nervous  and  anxious,  feeling  too  care 
worn  to  have  an  appetite  for  her  lonesome  dinner.  Buft 
her  children  must  be  attended  to,  and  her  domestic 
affairs  must  go  on,  notwithstanding  her  sad  and  dejected 
condition.  After  spending  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
in  this  manner,  she  is  kept  awake  through  the  night 
with  a  restless  babe,  which  none  but  a  mother  can 
soothe.  Would  it  be  a  wonder  if,  the  next  morning, 
she  should  rise — if  able  to  rise  at  all — with  an  aching 
head,  pale  and  careworn  countenance,  instead  of  a  fresh 
and  smiling  face,  and  elastic  spirits  ?  Would  it  be  sur 
prising  if  she  would  be  rather  slow  in  preparing  break 
fast,  or  that  her  husband  had  to  wait,  if  that  careworn 
mother  had  to  do  her  own  work,  as  too  many  mothers  have 
to  do  ?  Need  husbands,  who  keep  their  wives  waiting, 
wonder  that  they  fade  so  soon  and  look  sickly  ?  A  real, 
true  wife  and  mother  is  necessarily  confined  at  home  the 
greater  part  of  her  time,  and  seldom  sees,  any  company 
but  that  of  her  children  and  husband,  and  it  is  the  duty 
of  the  husband,  and  ought  to  be  his  choice,  if  he  loves 
his  wife,  to  give  her  as  much  of  his  time  as  he  can  pos- 
Bibly  take  from  important  business,  interesting  himself 
in  all  that  interests  her.  She  thinks  more  of  his  com 
pany  than  any  one  else  in  the  wide  world  does,  and 
when  the  hour  for  dinner  arrives,  she  watches  with  a 


88  HE   NEVER    KEPT    HIS   WIFE    WAITING. 

cheerful  expectation  of  spending  a  little  time  in  kind 
and  familiar  conversation,  with  one  whose  company  she 
prizes  more  than  all  the  world  beside ;  and  in  her  lonely 
and  retired  life,  these  dinner  and  tea  times  are  eras  of 
joy,  giving  a  cheerful  change  to  the  sameness  of  her 
never-ending  duties. 

Husband,  if  you  love  your  wife,  do  not  keep  her 
waiting ;  if  you  meet  a  friend  on  your  way  to  dinner, 
do  not  let  him  keep  you,  for  your  bosom  friend  is  wait 
ing  and  watching  for  you.  When  the  business  of  the  day 
is  over,  do  not  talk  politics,  or  take  a  stroll  with  a  compa 
nion,  for  tea  is  ready,  and  a  tired  and  half-sick  wife  is  wait 
ing  for  your  company  and  sympathizing  words.  If  she 
enjoys  your  society  so  much,  ought  it  not  to  be  reciprocal  ? 
She,  who  gave  herself  alone  to  you  in  all  her  youth  and 
beauty,  and  who  is  willing  to  stay  secluded  at  home  to 
care  for  your  comfort,  and  watch  over  little  ones — ought 
you  not  to  prize  her  company  more  than  all  besides  ? — 
more  than  societies,  clubs,  or  the  most  intelligent  and 
brilliant  companions  ?  There  are  many  men,  who  are 
respectable  and  industrious,  and  think  they  love  their 
wives,  and  are  doing  their  duty,  but  allow  this,  that,  or 
the  other  society  or  club,  to  take  the  time  they  ought  to 
give  their  wives. 


MT  e'.VN   FIRESIDE. 


It  is  a  mysti,     ".pie  that  surrounds 

Comforts  »?<{  •''flues  never  known  beyond 

Its  hallowtd  L  ait.  £'  -"s««. 


LET  others  seei  f«,-r  Jjipty  joys, 

In  ball  or  concert,  rout  or  play ; 
Whilst,  far  from  Fashion's  idle  noise, 

Her  gilded  domes  and  trappings  gay, 
1  while  the  wintry  eve  away, 

•Twixt  book  and  lute  the  hours  divide; 
And  marvel  how  I  e'er  could  stray 

From  thee — my  own  fireside  ! 

My  own  fireside  !     Those  simple  words 

Can  bid  the  sweetest  dreams  arise, 
Awaken  feeling's  tenderest  chords, 

And  fill  with  tears  of  joy  mine  eyes. 
What  is  there  my  wild  heart  can  prize 

That  doth  not  in  thy  sphere  abide '. 
Haunt  of  my  home-bred  sympathies, 

My  own — My  own  fireside ! 

A  gentle  form  is  near  me  now  ; 

A  small  white  hand  is  clasped  in  mine; 
I  gaze  upon  her  placid  brow, 

And  ask,  what  joys  can  equal  thine? 
A  babe,  whose  beauties  half  divine, 

In  sleep  his  mother's  eyes  doth  hide ; 
Where  may  Love  seek  a  fitter  shrine 

Than  thou — my  own  fireside  ? 

Hy  refuge  ever  from  the  storm 

Of  this  world's  passion,  strife,  and  care; 
Though  thunder-clouds  the  skies  deform, 

Their  fury  cannot  reach  me  there  i 


90  BE    PATIENT   WITH    THE   LITTLE   ONES 

There  all  is  cheerful,  calm  and  fair; 

Wrath,  Envy,  Malice,  Strife  or  Pride 
Hath  never  made  its  hated  lair 

By  thee — my  own  fireside  ! 

Shrine  of  my  household  deities  1 

Bright  scenes  of  home's  unsullied  joys, 
To  thee  my  burdened  spirit  flies 

When  Fortune  frowns,  or  Care  annoys ! 
Thine  is  the  bliss  that  never  cloys  ; 

The  smile  whose  truth  has  oft  been  tried; 
What,  then,  are  this  world's  tinsel  toys 

To  thee — my  own  fireside  ! 

Oh,  may  the  yearnings,  fond  and  sweet, 

That  bid  my  thoughts  be  all  of  thee, 
Thus  ever  guide  my  wandering  feet 

To  thy  heart-soothing  sanctuary ; 
Whate'er  my  future  years  may  be, 

Let  joy  or  grief  my  fute  betide, 
Be  still  an  Eden  bright  to  me, 

My  own — my  own  fireside  ! 


BE  PATIENT  WITH  THE  LITTLE  ONES. 

LA  putient  with  the  little  ones.  Let  neither  their 
slow  understanding  nor  their  occasional  pertness  offend 
you,  or  provoke  the  sharp  reproof.  Remember  the  world 
is  new  to  them,  and  they  have  no  slight  task  to  grasp 
with  their  unripened  intellects  the  mass  of  facts  and 
truths  that  crowd  upon  their  attt-ntion.  You  are  grown 
to  maturity  and  strength  through  years  of  experience. 


TEASING  PAPA. 


BE   PATIENT   WITH   THE   LITTLE   ONES.  01 

and  it  ill  becomes  you  to  fret  at  tlie  little  child  that  fails 
to  keep  pace  with  your  thought.  Teach  him  patiently, 
as  God  teaches  you,  "  line  upon  line,  precept  upon  pre 
cept  ;  here  a  little,  and  there  a  little."  Cheer  him  on 
in  this  conflict  of  mind :  in  after  years  his  ripe,  rich 
thought  shall  rise  up  and  call  you  blessed. 

Bide  patiently  the  endless  questionings  of  your  chil 
dren.  Do  not  roughly  crush  the  springing  spirit  of  free 
inquiry,  with  an  impatient  word  or  frown,  nor  attempt, 
on  the  contrary,  a  long  and  instructive  reply  to  f>very 
slight  and  casual  question.  Seek  rather  to  deepen  their 
curiosity.  Convert,  if  possible,  the  careless  question 
into  a  profound  and  earnest  inquiry ;  and  aim  rather  to 
direct  and  aid,  than  to  answer  this  inquiry.  Let  your 
reply  send  the  little  questioner  forth,  not  so  much  proud 
of  what  he  has  learned,  as  anxious  to  know  more.  Hap 
py  thou,  if  in  giving  thy  child  the  molecule  of  truth 
he  asks  for,  thou  canst  whet  his  curiosity  with  a  glimpse 
of  the  mountain  of  truth  lying  beyond ;  so  wilt  thou 
send  forth  a  philosopher,  and  not  a  silly  pedant  into  the 
world. 

Bear  patiently  the  childish  humours  of  those  little 
ones.  They  are  but  the  untutored  pleading  of  the  young 
spirit  for  care  and  cultivation.  Irritated  into  strength, 
and  hardened  into  habits,  they  will  haunt  the  whole  of 
life  like  fiends  of  despair,  and  make  thy  little  ones  curse 
the  day  they  were  born  ;  but,  corrected  kindly  and  pa 
tiently,  they  become  the  elements  of  happiness  and  use 
fulness.  Passions  are  but  fires  that  may  either  scorch 
us  with  their  uncontrolled  fury,  or  may  yield  us  a  genial 
and  needful  warmth. 


92  THE    INVALID    WIFE. 

Bless  your  little  ones  with  a  patient  care  of  their 
childhood,  and  they  will  certainly  consecrate  the  glory 
and  grace  of  their  manhood  to  your  service.  Sow  in 
their  hearts  the  seeds  of  a,  perennial  blessedness ;  :t3 
ripened  fruit  will  afford  you  a  perpetual  joy. 


THE  INVALID  WIFE. 

"ALWAYS  sick,"  from  month  to  month,  and  year  to 
year,  friends  become  accustomed  to  her  pale  face  and 
long  bony  fingers,  her  slow  step  and  short  quick 
breath,  and  weary  of  that  faint  smile,  and  inattention 
to  dress,  and  reluctance  to  going  out ;  and  they  say 
impatiently,  "  All  she  needs  is  air,  exercise,  and  cheer 
fulness  ;  what  a  drone  she  has  become !  I  pity  her 
husband." 

The  doctor  looks  at  her  with  a  meaning  smile,  saying, 
"  You  are  too  sedentary  in  your  habits,  madam — youi 
temperament  is  nervous,  little  troubles  destroy  youi 
equanimity — take  the  world  easy,  care  less  for  house 
hold  affairs,  never  mind  how  the  dinner  is  served  up, 
and  take  no  thought  about  the  children.  You  have  no 
organic  disease,  madam,  no  liver  affection,  no  consump 
tion  ;  it  is  all  nervous — all  mental.  Good  morning, 
madam.  I  pity  her  husband." 

"  All  nervous  !  this  dreadful  headache,  this  knife-like 
pain  in  my  side,  this  loss  of  appetite  ?  But  it  must  be 
so,  the  doctor  ought  to  know ;  and  I  will  try  to  believe 


THE   INVALID   WIFE.  93 

him,  and  forget  my  cares  ;"  and  she  leans  back  in  her 
chair  with  a  new  resolution  to  be  cheerful. 

"Johnny"  comes  in,  screaming  at  the  top  of  his  lungs, 
\vith  his  new  pantaloons  slitted  from  top  to  bottom  ;  the 
cook  makes  the  pie  crust  of  bread  dough,  and  dresses 
the  steak  with  the  ends  of  tallow  candles,  because  the 
butter  is  down  cellar;  and  a  friend  comes  home  with 
her  husband  to  dinner,  and  he  looks  thunderbolts,  and 
the  friend  consternation  —  but  never  mind  —  "dress, 
laugh,  and  go  out"  —  forget  death,  and  it  will  forget  you 
—  either  be  well,  or  die,  quickly,  for  friends  are  all 
"sorry  for"  your  husband. 

"  Complaining  women  never  die,"  is  an  old  saying, 
handed  down  to  us  from  the  lips  of  some  rough  country 
quack,  who  deserved  to  have  had  his  teeth  extracted  for 
his  want  of  sympathy  with  suffering  ;  and  the  same  un 
kind  thought  is  written  on  the  sarcastic  mouth  of  many 
a  modern  M.  D.  to  whom  the  poor  invalid  appeals  foi 
help,  as  she  drags  her  weary  limbs  over  the  rough  path 
of  life  without  hearing  one  word  of  sympathy,  or  seeing 
a  single  finger  raised  to  help  her.  None  realize  that  her 
life-strings  are  snapping  asunder  so  slowly  and  so  noise 
lessly  ;  and  when  the  last  gives  way,  and  she  sinks  into 
the  friendly  grave,  friends  hardly  miss  her,  because  they 
have  learned  so  gradually  to  do  without  her  labours  of 


She  is  gone  !  the  world  feels  not  the  shock  of  her  de 
parture,  as  when  some  great  human  light  fades  from  the 
firmament  of  mind  ;  and  social  institutions  are  not  sad 
dened  by  her  loss,  for  her  pale  face  was  almost  a  stran 
ger  in  their  halls. 


94  THE   INVALID    WIFE. 

But  there  are  little  loving  hearts  which  miss  her  geii- 
tle  tone,  earnest  kiss,  and  loving  blue  eyes ;  and  her 
husband  misses  for  a  little  time  her  sweet,  mournful 
smile,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  I  would  do  more  to  pro 
mote  your  happiness — but  I  am  so  feeble," — and  then 
he  forgets,  and  another  more  beautiful  is  taken  to  his 
heart  and  home ;  and  with  dewy  eyes  and  quivering  lips 
those  babes  pronounce  again  the  name  of  "Mother !" 

But  not  to  her  bosom  do  they  confide  all  their  little 
griefs  and  wrongs — not  there  do  they  sob  themselves  to 
sleep.  She  is  long  an  object  of  doubt  and  dread ;  and 
angel  although  she  may  be,  it  is  long,' very  long,  ere  she 
•will  win  them  to  confidence  and  love.  Every  dying 
mother  thinks  of  this,  and  every  stepmother  should 
realize  it,  and  have  patience  and  piety  to  begin  her 
work ;  for  the  heart  of  the  child  will  appeal  from  the 
mother  that  is,  to  her  who  is  not,  when  the  requirements 
of  the  former  approach  even  the  shadow  of  injustice. 

Husbands  of  invalid  wives,  (in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,) 
we  do  not  pity  you — you  who  go  in  and  out  so  carelessly, 
asking  no  questions,  and  never  saying,  in  a  soft,  earnest 
tone,  "  Would  to  God  that  I  could  help  you,  dear  wife!" 
You  who  do  not  try  to  realize  the  capriciousness  of  the 
appetite  which  longs  for  everything  beyond  its  reach ; 
who  have  no  sympathy  with  morbid  fears,  and  no  true- 
hearted  mother's  apprehensions,  lest  your  babes  may  be 
prematurely  cast  upon  the  sympathy  of  the  world — 
that  sympathy  which  freezes  by  the  coldness  of  its  heal 
ing  hand. 

Sympathy  for  you  ?  What  do  you  suffer  aside  from 
Inoenvenienee  ?  Think,  impatient  men,  as  you  look 


"  THE   OLD    FOLKS."  &* 

upon  that  faded  form,  of  what  she  was,  remember  her, 
as  you  took  her,  a  beautiful  bride,  away  from  the  bosom 
of  her  mother,  and  her  father's  strong,  protecting  arm — 
did  she  make  no  sacrifice  for  you  f  Know  that  for  your 
love  she  fettered  herself  with  those  cares  which  have 
racked  her  brain  until  they  undermined  her  slender  con 
stitution  ;  and  do  not  cause  her  now  to  say  in  her  heart's 
deep  agony,  "  I  have  become  an  encumbrance,  and  he 
will  not  miss  me  when  I  am  gone." 

Pity  the  invalid.  Part  the  damp  locks  upon  her  fore 
head,  and  kiss  it  tenderly ;  leave  her  not  long  alone ;  love 
}>er,  and  cherish  her  as  you  did  when  the  white  brida* 
rose  lingered  in  her  sunny  tresses,  and  the  carnation  of 
health  was  upon  her  rounded  cheek ;  for  surely,  though 
slowly,  she  is  dying ;  and  when  she  is  gone  an  angel  wilv 
have  gone  up  to  Heaven  before  you  to  plead  for  you  at 
the  eternal  bar,  saying,  Father,  remember  him  in  mercy, 
as  he  remembered  me,  after  all  others  forsook  me,  anA 
life  was  one  long  agony. 


"  THE  OLD  FOLKS." 

"  I  SUPPOSE  I  must  go  down  and  see  the  old  folks, 
pretty  soon,  but  it  is  a  dull  job,"  said  a  fashionably- 
dressed  young  mar  to  me  one  evening.  "The  country 
is  so  dull,  after  living  in  the  city,  that  I  dread  to  go 
there ;  there  is  nothing  to  look  at,  and  nowhere  to  go ; 
but  mother  is  getting  pretty  feeble,  and  I  ought  to  go.*' 


96  "  THE   OLD   FOLKS." 

I  perceived  that  the  "old  folks"  he  so  disrespectfully 
spoke  of  were  no  other  than  his  own  father  and  mother. 

"  I  could  get  along  with  one  day  well  enough,"  he 
Baid,  "  but  the  old  folks  are  never  satisfied  unless  I  stay 
<*  week,  or  three  or  four  days,  and  I  get  heart-sick  of  it, 
it  is  so  dull.  I  used  to  go  and  see  them  once  or  twice  a 
vear,  but  now  it  is  between  two  and  three  years  since  I 
have  been  there.  I  could  go  oftener,  but  it  is  so  tedious ; 
and  then  they  make  sc  much  of  me,  and  cry  so  when 
they  see  me,  that  it  makes  me  feel  bad,  because  I  do  not 
go  as  much  as  I  ought ;  so  sometimes  I  think  I  will  not 
30  at  all." 

How  little  had  this  careless  son  thought  of  his  aged 
pa/ents,  and  how  daily,  how  hourly  had  those  aged  pa 
rents  thought  of  him,  and  how  many  fervent  prayers  had 
ascended  to  God  for  him  from  that  quiet  fireside  !  He 
kn°w  not  how  many  evils  those  prayers  had  averted  from 
his  ungrateful  hea-d,  or  how  many  blessings  they  had 
poured  upon  him. 

But  all  sons  are  not  thus  ungrateful.  A  young  friend 
of  mine,  who  has  resided  sixteen  years  in  the  same  great 
metropolis,  has  never  failed  twice  a  year  to  visit  his  pa 
rents  and  goes  oftener,  or  whenever  it  is  possible  for 
him  to  leave  his  business.  I  accidentally  saw  a  letter  he 
addressed  to  a  sister  a  short  time  since,  which  shows  that 
a  young  man  can  be  immersed  in  extensive  business, 
and  yet  find  time  to  love  and  venerate  his  mother. 

"I  received  a  short  note  from  mother,"  he  writes, 
after  hearing  that  she  had  been  ill.  "  I  am  fearful  that 
the  is  not  improving.  If  she  is  any  worse,  or  becomes 
1*  igerousl^  ?:ck,  I  desire  to  know  it.  I  dread  tL* 


"  THE   OLD   FOLKS.  '  97 

thought  that  my,  our  mother,  cannot  he  spared  to  ua 
many  years  at  best — it  may  be  but  a  few  months.  1 
have  thought  of  it  very  much  for  a  few  weeks.  Although 
she  has  lived  nearly  her  threescore  years  and  ten,  and 
nature  has  become  almost  exhausted,  yet  how  I  should 
miss  her !  how  we  all  should  mourn  for  her !  What  a 
mother  she  has  been  to  us  !  What  a  woman ;  what  an 
example  ;  what  a  Christian  !  I  am  sure  of  it,  I  know  it, 
that  she  has  been  my  dearest  object  of  love  and  affec 
tion  all  the  days  of  my  life.  However  I  may  have 
strayed  from  her  bright  examples  and  her  teachings,  my 
mother  has  always  been  before  me,  beckonitg  me  to 
walk  in  the  right  way ;  and  if  I  have  not  prayed  my 
self  with  the  fervour  and  devotion  that  I  should,  I  -have 
always  felt  that  she  was  supplicating  for  me.  How  much 
she  has  loved  us,  how  much  she  has  cared  for  us !  What 
a  sacred  treasure,  even  to  the  end  of  our  lives,  will  be 
the  memories  of  our  mother ! 

"  I  see  her  now,  as  she  looked  to  me,  when  she  stood 
by  the  bedside  of  our  dying  brother,  cheering  him  in  his 
sufferings ;  and  I  hear  her  say,  "  The  same  clock  that 
told  the  hour  of  his  birth  is  now  telling  the  hour  of  his 
death!"  What  a  scene  was  that!  We  knoAv.  dear  sis 
ter,  that  these  things  must  be,  and  it  is  not  in  a  melan 
choly  strain  that  I  write ;  but  every  indication  of  the 
approaching  end  of  my  mother  stirs  within  me  all  the 
tenderness  of  my  heart.  Her  removal  will  be  to  the 
brightest  heaven,  die  when  she  may.  Old  age  is  but  the 
threshold  of  death,  and  after  a  life  spent  as  our  mother's 
has  been,  the  portals  of  another  world  can  have  110 
dreary  look." 


48       OBEDIENCE,  HOW  TAUGHT  TO  CHILDREN. 

How  ennobling,  how  touching  are  this  young  man's 
words !  We  cannot  but  respect  him  for  his  beautiful  re 
verence  and  love  for  his  mother.  Years  of  a  life  in  New 
York,  subject  lo  every  snare  and  every  temptation,  en 
gaged  in  an  engrossing  and  extensive  business,  with  the 
heat  and  passion  of  youth  upon  him,  yet  the  one  steady 
flame  of  deep  love  for  his  mother  burned  undimmed  in 
his  heart. 

Mothers,  she  was  a  mother  worthy  of  such  a  son. 
She  was  a  Christian  mother.  Would  you  inspire  similar 
love  and  reverence  ?  Be  like  her,  an  earnest  and  heart 
felt  follower  of  the  blessed  Redeemer. 

And  let  every  heartless,  neglectful  son  remember  the 
thorns  of  agony  his  thoughtlessness  implants  in  the 
hearts  of  his  parents.  Let  him  call  to  remembrance  the 
helpless  years  of  his  childhood,  and  all  the  self-sacri 
ficing  love  that  fills  their  hearts,  and  now  return  to  them 
and  to  God  the  love  and  gratitude  which  are  so  justly  due 


OBEDIENCE,  HOW  TAUGHT  TO  CHILDREN. 

[UNLESS  taught  in  earliest  infancy,  obedience  cannot 
be  taught,  or  very  imperfectly,  and  with  tenfold  difficulty. 
The  following  scene,  from  Grace  Aguilar's  Home  Influ- 
enc*,  affords  an  illustration  of  the  lessons  which  there 
are  frequent  opportunities  of  inculcating  in  every  young 
family.] 

Mrs.  Hamilton  is  a  young  mother,  and  the  little  boy 


OBEDIENCE,  HOW  TAUGHT  TO  CHILDREN.       99 

her  only  child.  Eleanor,  Mrs.  Hamilton's  sister,  thinks 
firmness  with  so  young  a  child  unnecessary  severity. 

The  day  before  Eleanor's  intended  departure,  the 
sisters  were  sitting  together,  and  little  Percy,  who  now 
ran  firmly  without  any  falls,  was  playing  about  the  room. 
He  had  already  displayed  a  high  spirit  and  passionate 
temper,  with  their  general  accompaniment,  self-will,  even 
in  trifles,  that  Mrs.  Hamilton  felt  would  render  her  task 
a  trying  one ;  but  she  was  firm  as  she  was  gentle,  and 
faced  the  pain  of  contradicting  her  darling  bravely. 

"  Do  not  touch  that,  Percy,  love,"  she  said,  as  her 
little  boy  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  a  beautiful  but 
fragile  toy,  that  stood  with  other  nick-nacks  on  a  low 
table.  The  child  looked  laughingly  and  archly  towards 
her  and  withdrew  his  hand,  but  did  not  move  from  the 
table. 

"  Come  here,  Percy,  you  have  not  played  with  these 
pretty  things  for  a  long  time  ;"  and  she  took  from  her 
work-box  some  gayly-coloured  ivory  balls,  which  had 
been  his  favourite  playthings,  but  just  at  present  they 
had  lost  their  charm,  and  the  young  gentleman  did  not 
move. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  knelt  down  by  him,  and  said  quietly, 

"  My  Percy  will  not  disobey  mamma,  will  he?" 

"  Me  want  that,"  he  replied,  in  the  pretty,  coaxing 
tone  of  infancy ;  and  he  twined  his  little  round  arms 
caressingly  around  her  neck. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  felt  very  much  tempted  to  indulge 
him,  but  she  resisted. 

"  But  that  is  not  a  fit  plaything  for  you,  love ;  besides 
it  is  not  mine,  and  we  must  not  touch  what  is  not  ours. 


•  00      OBEDIENCE,  HOW  TAUGHT  TO  CHILDREN. 

Come  and  see  if  we  cannot  find  something  just  as  pretty, 
that  you  may  have." 

And  after  some  minutes'  merry  play  in  her  lap  hia 
mother  hoped  he  had  forgotten  it ;  but  the  little  gentle 
man  was  not,  he  thought,  to  be  so  governed.  The  for 
bidden  plaything  was  quietly  grasped,  and  he  seated 
himself  on  the  ground  in  silent  but  triumphant  glee. 

Surprised  at  his  sudden  silence,  Mrs.  Hamilton  looked 
towards  him.  It  was  his  first  act  of  decided  disobe 
dience,  and  she  knew  she  must  not  waver.  Young  as 
he  was,  he  had  already  learned  to  know  when  she  was 
displeased,  and  when  she  desired  him  very  gravely  to 
give  her  the  toy,  he  passionately  threw  it  down,  and 
burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  crying.  His  nurse  took  him 
struggling  from  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  quietly 
resumed  her  work ;  but  there  was  such  an  expression  of 
pain  in  her  countenance,  that  Eleanor  exclaimed, 

"  Emmeline  !  I  have  been  watching  you  for  the  last 
half-hour,  and  I  cannot  comprehend  you.  Do  explain 
yourself." 

"  I  will  if  I  can  ;"  and  Mrs.  Percy  looked  up  and 
smiled. 

"  Why  would  you  not  let  that  poor  little  Percy  have 
that  toy  ?" 

"  Because  it  would  have  been  encouraging  his  touch 
ing  or  taking  everything  he  sees,  whether  proper  for  him 
or  not." 

"  But  he  could  not  understand  that." 

"  Not  now,  perhaps ;  but  I  wish  him  to  know  that 
when  I  speak  he  must  obey  one.  It  is,  I  think,  a  mis 
taken  loctrine,  that  we  ought  to  give  children  a  reason 


OBEDIENCE,  HOW  TAUGHT  TO  CHILDREN      101 

for  all  we  desire  them  to  do.  Obedience  can  then  never 
be  prompt,  as  it  ought  to  be.  And  in  fact,  if  we  wait 
until  they  are  old  enough  to  understand  the  reasons  for 
a  command,  the  task  will  be  much  more  difficult,  from 
the  ascendency  which  wilfulness  may  already  have  ob 
tained." 

"  But  then  why  were  you  so  cruel  as  to  send  the  poor 
child  up  stairs  ?  Was  it  not  enough  to  take  the  toy 
from  him  ?" 

"Not  quite,  for  him  to  remember  that  he  must  not 
touch  it  again." 

"  And  do  you  really  think  he  will  not  ?" 

"  I  can  only  hope  so,  Eleanor  ;  but  I  must  not  be  dis 
heartened  if  he  do.  He  is  an  infant  still,  and  I  cannot 
expect  him  to  learn  such  a  difficult  lesson  as  obedience 
in  one,  two,  or  six  lessons." 

"  And  will  he  love  you  as  much  as  if  you  had  given 
it  to  him  ?" 

"  Not  at  the  moment,  perhaps,  but  when  he  is  older 
he  will  love  me  more.  And  it  is  that  hope  which  recon 
ciles  me  to  the  pain  which  refusing  to  indulge  him  costs 
me  now,"  replied  the  young  mother. 

"  And  voluntarily  you  will  bear  the  pain  which  had 
almost  brought  tears  into  the  eyes  of  the  severe  and 
stoical  Mrs.  Hamilton  !"  exclaimed  Eleanor. 

"  It  was  a  foolish  weakness,  my  dear  Eleanor,  for 
which  my  husband  would  have  chidden  me ;  but  there 
must  be  pain  to  a  mother  if  called  upon  to  exert  autho 
rity,  when  inclination  so  strongly  points  to  indulgence." 

"  Well,  if  ever  I  have  anything  to  do  with  children  I 
certainly  shall  riot  be  half  as  particular  as  you  are,  Em 


102     .  OUR   HOMES. 

meline.  I  really  cannot  imagine  what  harm  gratifying 
yourself  and  Percy  could  possibly  have  done." 

"  If  ever  you  have  children,  my  dear  Eleanor,  may 
you  have  strength  of  mind  and  self-control  sufficient  to 
forget  self,  and  refuse  the  gratification  of  the  present 
moment  for  the  welfare  of  future  years  !" 

And  so  it  came  to  pass.  The  contrast  afforded  by 
the  domestic  history  of  the  families  of  the  two  sisters, 
as  developed  in  Grace  Aguilar's  beautiful  narrative, 
affords  abundant  illustration  of  the  truth,  that  lessons 
of  obedience  must  be  commenced  at  life's  earliest  dawn 
ing.  The  good  fruit  is,  usually,  not  long  in  appearing. 
A  few  years'  patient  and  kind  firmness  will  be  rewarded 
by  habitual,  cheerful,  and  instant  obedience. 


OUR   HOMES. 

GENIUS  hath  its  triumphs,  fame  its  glories,  wealth  its 
splendour,  success  its  bright  rewards,  but  the  heart  only 
hath  its  home.  Home  only  !  What  more  needeth  the 
heart  ?  What  more  can  it  gain  ?  A  true  home  is  more 
than  the  world — more  than  honour  and  pride  and  for 
tune — more  than  all  earth  can  give — the  light  the  noon 
day  sun  may  not  yield,  and  yet  the  tiny  flame  of  one 
pure  beam  of  love  enkindleth,  and  sympathy  makes  to 
burn  for  ever. 

Home !  How  more  than  beautiful  thou  art ! — how 
like  an  untaught  religion ! — a  golden  link  between  the 


MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER   SERVANTS.  103 

soul  and  heaven ! — when  the  presence  of  a  pure  heart 
makes  thee  radiant,  and  the  music  of  their  affecticn 
floats  like  the  chorals  of  unseen  cherubims  around  their 
tranquil  hearth ! 


MRS.  WINTERFORD  AND  HER  SERVANTS. 

"  CRASH  !  there,  I  wonder  what  Bridget  has  broken 
now !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Winterford,  as  she  raised  her 
head,  listening,  from  the  bed  where  she  had  been  lying 
crumpled  miserably  up,  under  one  of  her  attacks  of 
nervous  headache.  "  I  think  it  must  be  the  other  large 
tureen ;  nothing  else  would,  fall  so  heavily.  Oh,  dear ! 
we  shall  not  have  a  dish  left  in  the  house  at  this  rate. 
Why  must  people  be  tortured  with  such  girls  as  Bridget  ? 
Such  a  breakfast  as  we  had  this  morning !  The  toast 
burnt  to  cinders,  and  the  steak  pommelled  through  with 
slivers  of  bone,  and  garnished  with  ashes  !  I  do  believe 
a  good  breakfast  would  almost  have  cured  my  head.  I 
thought,  before  we  were  married,  that  we  should  be  so 
happy ;  and  now  one  could  scarcely  find  a  more  comfort 
less  home  than  this.  William  does  all  he  can,  and  more 
than  he  can  afford,  to  make  me  happy.  To  think  of 
hiring  two  girls  for  so  small  a  family  as  ours,  and  then 
having  nothing  done  as  it  ought  to  be :  it  is  too  bad. 
Oh,  how  that  baby  screams  !  it  will  drive  me  distracted. 
Catharine,  bring  him  to  me,  and  let  me  try  to  quiet 
him." 

And  she  crept  from  the  bed  to  her  rocking-chair, 


101  MRS.    WJNTERFORD   AND    HER    SERVANTS. 

pressing  her  hands  to  her  temples  as  she  did  so,  to  re 
press  the  pain  caused  by  the  effort  to  rise. 

"Where  is  Willie?"  she  asked  as  she  took  the  chill, 
who  had  screamed  till  he  was  almost  in  convulsions. 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  replied  Catharine:  "he  was 
lilaying  on  the  front  door-step  when  I  came  up." 

"  In  the  street,  I  presume,  under  the  heels  of  the 
horses,"  said  Mrs.  Winterford,  with  a  shiver.     "  Go  and 
Bee  to  him  immediately ;  I  never  allow  him  to' play  out 
side  the  front  door.     Arid   bring  me  some  hot  vinegar 
and  bandages,  when  you  come  up." 

Mrs.  Winterford  had  lost  her  mother  at  an  early  age, 
and  had  been  brought  up  in  a  boarding-house,  so-  that, 
until  her  marriage,  she  had  known  nothing  of  household 
cares,  or  of  the  management  of  children.  She  had  now 
been  housekeeping  five  years,  and  during  that  time  had 
tried  over  forty  different  girls.  Of  these  some  were 
better  than  others,  but  none  were  good.  One  was  too 
slovenly  to  be  endured,  another  was  wasteful,  some 
abused  the  children  in  her  absence,  some  were  dishonest, 
and  others  who  seemed  to  do  well  at  first  would  become 
very  insolent  and  leave  her  suddenly  without  notice ;  so 
that,  with  one  to  another,  the  house  was  kept  in  constant 
confusion. 

Besides  this,  her  own  health  was  poor,  and  her  babe 
a  nervous  fretful  child,  who  gave  her  little  rest  day  or 
night ;  so  that,  although  she  loved  her  husband  and  ap 
preciated  his  efforts  to  make  her  happy,  she  was  con 
stantly  distracted  and  uncomfortable  from  the  various 
sources  of  annoyance  that  surrounded  her. 

Catharine  was  gone  a  long  time,  and  Mrs.  Winterford, 


MRS.  WINTERFORD  AND  HER  SERVANTS.       105 

after  trying  in  vain  to  quiet  the  babe,  and  feeling  too 
ill  to  sit  up,  attempted  to  call  her.  She  looked  for  her 
hand-bell,  but  it  was  not  in  sight,  and  she  then  remem 
bered  that  Willie  had  broken  the  breakfast-bell  the  day 
before,  and  that  hers  had  been  carried  down  to  supply 
the  place  of  it.  She  then  tried  to  call  her,  but  although 
she  could  hear  her  voice  distinctly  from  the  kitchen, 
which  was  in  the  basement  directly  below  her  room,  she 
could  not  make  herself  heard ;  and,  exhausted  and  dis 
consolate,  she  threw  herself  once  more  upon  the  bed, 
with  the  crying  babe  beside  her. 

Scarcely  had  she  done  so,  however,  when  a  loud  up 
roar  from  the  kitchen,  mingled  with  Willie's  screams, 
called  her  once  more  to  her  feet.  This  time  she  grasped 
the  babe  in  her  arms,  and  hurrying  part  way  down  stairs, 
called  loudly  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

"Willie's  pulled  his  bath-tub  over  on  to  him  and 
broken  his  head,  and  wet  every  stitch  there  is  in  him," 
replied  Catharine,  screaming  from  the  basement. 

"Bring  him  to  me." 

"  He's  dripping  with  water,  mum." 

"  Bring  him  to  me  this  instant,"  said  Mrs.  Winterford, 
decidedly. 

Willie  was  accordingly  dragged  up  stairs,  drenched  to 
the  skin,  and  his  face  covered  with  blood  from  a  gash 
over  the  eye. 

"  How  did  this  happen?"  asked  Mrs.  Winterford. 

"  He  pulled  the  bath-tub  on  him,  as  I  was  telling 
yez." 

"  Where  was  the  bath-tub,  that  he  could  pull  it  on 
him?" 


106  MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER   SERVANTS. 

"  It  was  setting  on  the  corner  of  the  sink,  jist." 

"And  \vhy  wasn't  it  emptied?" 

"  Because  I  had  everything  to  do,  and  no  time  to  do 
it  in.  Ye  called  me  up  stairs" the  rest  of  Catha 
rine's  explanation  was  lost  in  an  unintelligible  mutter. 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  sighed  Mrs.  Winterford  ;  "  couldn't 
Bridget  empty  the  bath-tub  ?" 

"  She  says  it's  no  concern  of  hers,  whether  the  bath 
tub  is  emptied  or  not,"  said  Catharine. 

Willie's  forehead  was  bathed  and  bandaged,  his  wet 
clothes  taken  off,  and  Catharine  sent  to  the  bureau  to 
obtain  fresh  clothing. 

"  Where'll  I  get  it,  mum  ?" 

"In  the  middle  drawer — this  side." 

"  There's  nothing  here,"  reported  Catharine,  after  a 
few  moments'  tumbling  in  the  drawer. 

"  Why,  yes  there  is.  Don't  toss  those  things  about 
so,  and  be  quick." 

"  Well,  I  can't  find  a  stitch  of  Willie's  clothes  here," 
Baid  Catharine,  after  fumbling  over  the  drawer  a  few 
minutes  longer. 

"It  is  impossible — he  has  ten  full  suits,  and  there 
must  be  some  of  them  there.  Where  are  the  clothes 
from  this  week's  wash  ?" 

"They're  not  ironed  yet." 

"Not  ironed  yet,  and  here  it  is  Thursday!  Well, 
there  ought  to  be  enough  from  last  week's  wash  to  last 
this  long  while  yet." 

"  Bridget  didn't  wash  them  last  week  ;  she  put  away 
the  rest  of  the  washing  after  that  lady  came  to  take 
dinner  with  you." 


MRS.    W3NTERFORD   AND    HER   SERVANTS.  107 

*'  Put  away  the  rest  of  the  washing  !" 

"  Yes,  mum ;  she  said  she  wasn't  going  to  wait  upon 
company  and  wash  too." 

"  Wait  upon  company  !  What  in  the  world  did  she 
do  ?  I  was  particular  that  she  should  not  be  called  upon 
for  a  step  more  than  usual." 

"  That's  what  she  did,  mum." 

"  Was  there  ever  the  like  ?  Poor  child  !  not  a  gar 
ment  to  put  on,  and  there  he  stands  shivering  with  the 
cold.  Put  down  the  windows,  Catharine."  And  Mrs. 
Winterford,  seizing  a  ragged  pair  of  stockings  from  the 
drawer,  which  she  had  approached  to  assist  Catharine's 
search,  attempted  to  put  them  on.  The  baby  struggled 
and  screamed,  and  she  was  obliged  to  desist.  Catharine 
closed  the  windows,  and  was  then  directed  to  bring  the 
Boiled  clothes  that  Willie  had  taken  off  the  day  before. 
As  she  returned  from  the  closet,  they  were  both  startled 
by  a  ringing  of  the  door-bell. 

"Mercy!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Winterford.  "If  it's  any 
callers,  say  that  I  am  engaged ;  that  I  am  ill.  Don't 
let  any  one  in." 

Catharine  dropped  the  clothes  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  and  went  to  answer  the  bell.  The  last  hour's  con 
fusion  had  increased  Mrs.  Winterford's  headache  almost 
to  distraction,  and  she  now  dragged  herself  dizzily  to 
the  spot  where  Catharine  had  thrown  Willie's  clothes, 
and  attempted  to  put  them  on. 

Catharine  returned  presently,  saying,  as  she  opened 
the  door,  "  It's  somebody  has  come  to  stop — a  lady  with 
two  trunks ;  I  put  her  in  the  parlour,  and  here  is  whai 
she  gave  me." 


108  MRS.    WINTERFORD    AND    HER    SERVANTS. 

"  Aunt  Mary  Markham  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Winter- 
ford,  reading  the  card  ;  "  what  could  have  sent  her  here 
now  ?  She  of  all  the  world  ! — there  never  was  a  thing 
out  of  place  in  her  house.  Has  the  parlour  been 
swept?" 

"No,  mum." 

"What  shall  I  do?  the  candles  burnt  down  in  the 
sockets,  and  the  books  and  papers  on  the  floor,  I  dare 
say,"  murmured  Mrs.  Winterford,  as  she  remembered 
that  her  husband  had  been  up  long  after  she  retired  the 
night  before. 

"  Willie's  been  in  there,  playing  horse,"  said  Catha 
rine,  anxious  to  assist  her  mistress  in  the  list  of  aggra 
vating  circumstances  on  which  she  seemed  disposed  to 
dwell.  But  she  had  no  further  time  to  arrange  her 
thoughts,  for,  at  this  moment,  the  door  opened  and  Mary 
Markham  entered. 

"I  was  sorry  I  sent  up  my  name,"  she  said,  "after  I 
heard  you  were  ill ;  so  I  followed  the  sound  of  voices, 
and  came  up  directly,  lest  you  should  think  it  necessary 
to  make  some  preparation  to  receive  me." 

Mrs.  Markham  was  a  woman  somewhat  past  the  prime 
of  life,  with  a  mild,  calm  face,  and  dark  hair  mottled 
with  silver  combed  smoothly  away  behind  her  cap.  Her 
figure  inclined  slightly  to  embonpoint,  and  there  was  that 
in  her  whole  dress  and  manner  that  evidenced  a  whole 
some,  well-balanced  tone  of  life.  It  was  altogether  an 
Indian-Summer  look — with  the  flowers  gone  and  tha 
dry  leaves  rustling  gently  on  the  still  air,  but  with  the 
all-pervading  sunshine  still  warm  and  genial,  and  grown 
more  rich  and  mellow  from  its  dalliance  with  life's  Au 


MHS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER    SERVANTS.  109 

tumn  fruits.  She  had  been  the  wife  and  was  now  the 
widow  of  a  wealthy  and  influential  farmer,  in  a  distant 
state,  and  the  mother  of  a  large  family  who  were  now 
settled  in  life  and  occupying  positions  of  usefulness. 
Mrs.  Winterford  had  visited  her  once  or  twice  during 
her  early  girlhood;  but  she  remembered  very  little  of 
her  except  that  she  was  considered  a  model  of  mothers 
and  housekeepers. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  babe  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Markham,  after  the  first  salutations  and  explanations 
had  passed. 

"  Oh  !  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Winterford,  anx 
iously  ;  "he  cries  so  a  good  share  of  the  time.  I  do  not 
think  he's  well." 

"Poor  little  fellow  !"  said  Mrs.  Markham,  taking  him 
carefully  from  the  hands  of  his  nurse,  who  was  flourish 
ing  him  frantically  through  the  air. 

"  Oh  !  don't  take  him,  aunt,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Winter- 
ford.  "  It  is  very  hard  for  any  one  to  hold  him  who  is 
not  used  to  it." 

Mrs.  Markham  folded  him  up  in  her  arms,  very  much 
as  if  she  was  used  to  it ;  and  Catharine,  finding  herself 
at  liberty,  began  to  gather  up  the  wet  clothes  Willie  had 
thrown  off. 

"  Take  them  down  and  dry  them  by  the  kitchen  fire," 
said  Mrs.  Wiaterford,  "  so  that  he  may  have  them  again 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  bring  a  floor-cloth  to  wipe  the 
wet  from  the  carpet." 

"What  will  I  do  with  Willie's  clothes?"  said  Catha 
rine,  again  entering  the  room  after  a  short  absence  ; 
*'  Bridget  says  she  won't  have  them  by  the  kitchen  fire — • 


110  MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND   HER   SERVANTS. 

they're  in  her  way.  The  fire  is  all  out,  too.  And  sho 
says  she  don't  know  how  to  cook  them  things  the  maeter 
has  sent  up  for  dinner." 

"  What  are  they  ?" 

"Little  birds,  mum." 

"Pigeons,"  said  Mrs.  Winterford,  with  a  look  of  dis 
tress.  She  remembered  that  she  had  expressed  a  desire 
for  some,  a  few  days  before,  and  now  her  husband  had 
gent  them  up  with  a  kind  wish  to  do  something  to  gratify 
her.  "  I  must  go  down  and  see  about  it,"  she  said, 
turning  sadly  from  her  efforts  to  arrange  the  room,  with 
a  suspicion  that  it  was  very  late  to  cook  pigeons  even  if 
she  were  well. 

"  Sit  down,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Markham,  as  she  folded 
the  quilt  over  the  babe,  which,  somehow  or  other,  had 
fallen  quietly  asleep  in  her  arms  ;  "  or  rather  lie  down, 
for  I  perceive  you  are  quite  too  ill  for  anything  else, 
and  I  will  go  down  and  show  your  girl  how  to  cook  the 
pigeons." 

"  Oh !  Aunt  Mary,  I  could  never  think  of  such  a 
thing,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Winterford,  earnestly. 

"Hush,  my  dear;  there,"  and  she  arranged  the  pil 
lows  invitingly;  "lie  down,  and  try  to  quiet  yourself.  I 
have  had  my  own  way  these  forty  years,  and  you  must 
do  as  I  tell  you." 

Mrs.  Winterford  was  glad  to  crouch  once  more  upon 
the  bed,  saying,  feebly,  as  she  did  so, 

"  You  never  saw  the  inside  of  such  a  kitchen  in  your 
life,  I  am  sure." 

Aunt  Mary  had  something  very  curious  in  her  pocket, 
BO  that  Willie  was  enticed  to  follow  her  softly  out  of  the 


MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER   SERVANTS.  11] 

leaving  his  mother,  oh  !  so  quiet — she  could 
scarcely  remember  when  it  had  been  so  quiet  there. 

Something  like  an  hour  had  elapsed  when  Mrs.  Mark- 
ham  returned,  with  Willie  at  her  side,  looking  contented 
and  happy,  and  his  clothes,  nicely  dried  and  ironed, 
upon  her  arm.  "  I  will  put  these  clothes  on  Willie,  now, 
if  you  like,"  she  said,  seating  herself  for  the  task. 

"Why,  how  did  you  dry  them  so  soon?"  said  Mrs. 
Winterford,  looking  up  from  the  drowse  into  which  she 
was  falling. 

"  There  is  a  good  fire  in  the  kitchen,  now,  and  they 
dried  very  soon." 

"  Did  you  get  Bridget's  permission  ?"  asked  her  niece, 
with  a  smile. 

"  No ;  I  found  a  towel-frame  and  spread  them  out 
upon  it,  without  troubling  myself  about  her  opinion  in 
the  matter.  I  put  the  pigeons  in  for  a  stew,  but  if  you 
prefer  them  broiled  they  can  be  taken  out  for  it  when 
they  are  parboiled  ;  there  was  not  time  to  roast  them — • 
the  girl  said  one  o'clock  was  your  dinner  hour." 

"  You  did  not  do  it  yourself,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Bridget  helped  me ;  but  she  did  not  understand  it 
very  well.  I  presume  I  have  done  more  work  of  that 
kind  than  most  people.  But  how  will  you  have  the 
pigeons  ?" 

"  Oh !  I  prefer  them  stewed,  and  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  indeed ;  but  I  really  feel  mortified,  aunt, 
that  you  should  have  to  go  into  my  kitchen  to  work  be 
fore  you  had  scarcely  untied  your  bonnet,  and  you  tired 
with  your  journey  too.  Your  travelling  dress  must  have 
suffered.  ' 


112  MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER   SERVANTS 

"  I  always  carry  my  big  apron  in  the  top  of  my  trunk, 
wherever  I  go.  Mother's  apron  is  a  proverb  in  the 
families  of  my  own  children,  and  I  spend  most  of  my 
time  with  one  or  other  of  them.  I  have  now  been 

some  weeks  with  my  son  in.B ,  so  that  I  have  only 

had  a  few  hours'  ride  in  the  cars,  this  morning,  and  am 
not  at  all  fatigued.  After  making  you  a  little  visit,  I  am 
going  on  to  spend  the  winter  with  Helen,  who  lives  in 

W .  I  am  very  glad  I  came  just  as  I  did.  I  don't 

know  what  would  have  become  of  your  headache  and 
the  dinner  without  me." 

"  No  I,  indeed.  I  think  some  good  spirit  must  have 
sent  you.  But  how  that  baby  sleeps.  I  verily  believe 
you  magnetized  him  ;  he  never  sleeps  any." 

"  I  presume  he  is  worn  out ;  he  looked  so.  You  worry 
him  too  much. 

"  Worry  him  ?" 

"Yes;  I  mean  you  are  too  nervous  yourself;  you 
allow  little  things  to  trouble  you  more  than  you  should." 

"  Oh !  aunt !  but  the  little  things  are  so  very  trouble 
some." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  find  them  so,  but,  for  your  own 
good  and  that  of  your  child,  you  must  endeavour  to  find 
them  as  little  so  as  possible.  There,  Willie,  go  and  kiss 
mamma,  and  tell  her  that  you  will  keep  in  prime  order 
until  papa  comes  home  to  dinner.  I  told  Bridget  to 
make  you  a  nice  cup  of  tea,  and  you  had  better  not  try  to 
get  up  or  care  for  anything  till  your  headache  is  over.' 

"  How  kind  you  are !  and,  now,  my  guest-chamber  is 
the  front  one  on  this  floor.  Here  comes  Catharine.  She 
will  bring  you  water  and  whatever  you  need." 


MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER   SERVANTS.  113 

"I'm  after  carrying  up  the  water  and  towels  now," 
said  Catharine,  who  had  just  finished  arranging  the  par 
lours  and  halls.  Mrs.  Winterford  experienced  a  com 
fortable  sensation  of  surprise  that  she  should  have 
thought  of  it  herself,  and  Mrs.  Markham  departed  to 
her  own  room,  taking  Willie  with  her,  and  advising  her 
niece  to  keep  Catharine  near,  in  order  that  she  might  not 
be  disturbed  herself  when  the  babe  awoke. 

"Bridget  says  she  guesses  somebody  has  come,"  said 
Catharine,  partly  to  herself,  as  she  restored  the  soiled 
clothes  to  the  closet. 

"Am  I  then  so  much  of  nobody  in  my  own  house?" 
murmured  Mrs.  Winterford,  burying  her  temples  in  the 
cool  pillow. 

But  she,  too,  thought  that  somebody,  or  some  good 
influence,  had  come  into  the  house,  when,  shortly  after, 
Catharine  stood  by  the  bed  with  the  hot  vinegar  and 
bandages  she  had  ordered  so  long  ago. 

"  Will  you  have  these  now,  mum  ?"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Winterford  had  almost  forgotten  them  herself, 
and  she  could  not  but  wonder  how  Catharine  came  to  be 
BO  thoughtful. 

"  What  do  you  think  is  the  reason  I  am  so  troubled 
about  my  domestics,  aunt?"  said  Mrs.  Winterford,  one 
day  during  Mrs.  Markham's  visit.  "I  have  changed  till 
I  am  tired  of  it,  and  would  rather  put  up  with  almost 
everything  than  run  the  risk  of  trying  again." 

"A  good  servant  is  a  very  difficult  thing  to  obtain," 
said  Mrs.  Markham,  after  a  few  moments'  hesitation. 
"  Those  who  are  really  efficient  find  room  in  other  sta- 
1  8 


114  MIIS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER   SERVANTS. 

tions,  in  this  country.  Besides,  I  think  the  relation 
between  mistress  and  servant  is  scarcely  understood  by 
our  ladies,  generally." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  There  are  many  who  either  do  not  govern  their  ser 
vants  at  all,  or  if  they  attempt  it,  do  so  with  a  sort  of 
arrogance  or  uppishness  that  is  offensive ;  and  that  ia 
usually  met  on  the  part  of  the  servant  with  the  same 
kind  of  uppishness,  only  as  much  worse  in  degree  as  she 
is  below  her  mistress  in  refinement." 

"  Then  you  think  we  really  ought  to  govern  our  ser 
rants  ?  I  am  not  sure  that  our  American  servants  would 
submit  at  all  to  that  opinion." 

"  I  presume  they  would  submit  to  it  if  those  they 
serve  would  first  make  sure  of  it.  No  one  can  rule  with 
true  dignity  unless  first  convinced  of  her  right  to  rule. 
A  woman  should,  of  course,  be  mistress  of  her  own 
house  in  every  part  of  it.  A  part  of  the  agreement 
between  your  servant  and  yourself  is,  that  she  shall  act 
under  your  authority,  and  this  should  be  observed  as 
much  as  any  other  part  of  the  contract.  Your  imme 
diate  comfort  depends  upon  her  conduct  more  than  on 
that  of  almost  any  other  person.  And  the  government 
and  proper  training  of  the  servants  in  a  household  is, 
in  my  opinion,  a  much  more  difficult  study  than  the 
training  of  our  own  children,  of  which  we  read,  and 
hear,  and  talk  so  much.  Not  that  we,  by  any  means, 
take  too  much  pains  with  these,  but  that  we  most  wo 
fully  neglect  the  others.  Our  servants,  for  the  most 
part,  come  to  us  after  years  of  corrupt  training;  and 


MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER    SERVANTS.  115 

we  have  more  to  do  to  eradicate  their  bad  habits  than  to 
teach  them  good.  We  must  first  settle  in  our  own  minds 
distinctly  and  exactly  what  we  require  of  them,  and  then 
we  must  be  sure  that  they  understand  it  as  distinctly. 
If,  with  this  understanding,  they  do  not  choose  to  abide 
by  your  requirements,  there  need  be  no  words  about  it. 
You  must  look  elsewhere  for  your  servants.  But  you 
must  be  sure  that  you  require  of  them  no  more  than  is 
just  and  right.  You  should  look  to  their  comfort  as 
much  as  to  that  of  any  other  member  of  the  family. 
Providence  has  placed  them  under  your  influence,  and 
it  is  your  duty  to  see  how  that  influence  is  used.  It  is 
not  enough  to  vote  them  all  a  nuisance,  and  after  taxing 
your  powers  of  endurance  with  their  faults  as  long  as 
you  can,  to  shove  them  off  and  try  others.  It  is  in  thia 
way  that  the  floating  mass  of  servants  have  been  ban 
died  from  house  to  house  all  their  lives,  feeling  them 
selves  abused,  and  considering  it  their  chief  business  to 
retaliate  for  that  abuse.  You  must  not  expect  them  to 
fulfil  every  item  of  their  duty  towards  you,  before  you 
have  done  your  whole  duty  towards  them.  This  would 
be  to  acknowledge  them  your  superiors.  And  by  as 
much  as  you  consider  their  position  and  their  tasks  less 
pleasant  than  your  own,  by  so  much  should  you  seek  to 
give  them  some  relaxation — some  enjoyment.  And  you 
should  endeavour,  as  far  as  possible,  that  their  enjoy 
ment  be  of  a  wholesome  kind.  They  come  in  too  close 
contact  with  your  children  for  you  to  be  indifferent  to 
this.  They  may  require  patience,  but  it  is  certainly 
worth  an  effort ;  for  there  is  no  more  important  item  of 
domestic  comfort  than  a  good  servant,  if  you  employ 


116  MRS.    WINTERFORD    AND    HER    SERVANTS. 

one  at  all.  Many  remain  through  their  lives  a  trouble 
and  a  nuisance  in  the  families  where  they  live,  when  a 
few  kind  words,  and  a  kittle  careful  training,  might  have 
made  them  both  useful  and  happy." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Bridget  ?" 

"  I  think  she  has  capacity  enough  for  a  good  servant, 
if  she  had  only  a  mind  to  use  it." 

"But  she  is  so  slovenly." 

"  True,  she  is ;  but  then  it  is  not  because  she  does  not 
know  how  to  be  neat.  She  does  not  like  to  take  the 
trouble  necessary  to  keep  things  in  order.  She  apolo 
gized  to  me,  the  morning  I  came,  for  the  dirty  kitchen, 
and  really  made  it  quite  neat  that  afternoon,  before  she 
ivent  to  ironing." 

"  But,  aunt,  I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it,  but  it 
certainly  is  true  that  the  girls  have  both  done  better 
since  you  came  here  than  I  ever  kne\v  them  before." 

"Indeed  !" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  there  is  a  sort  of  magnetism  about  it 
— that  they  feel  as  if  you  knew  better  how  things  ought 
to  be  done  than  I  do.  Why  should  she  care  so  much 
more  for  having  you  see  the  dirty  kitchen  than  for  me  ?" 

"  People  usually  care  more  for  strangers ;  and  then  I 
told  her,  when  I  went  to  show  her  about  the  pigeons, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  have  dinner  by  the  time  she 
named,  without  a  quick,  clear  fire ;  and  while  she  made 
the  fire,  I  took  the  stove-brush  and  shovel,  and  made  all 
things  bright  and  new  about  the  stove.  There  is  nothing 
like  giving  them  a  model  to  copy  from.  Make  one  part 
of  the  kitchen  clean  for  them,  and  they  will  endeavoui 


MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER   SERVANTS. 

to  bring  the  rest  up  to  your  standard,  if  they  have  any 
neatness  about  them." 

"  Why,  aunt,  I  never  thought  it  necessary  for  me  to 
meddle  with  such  things.  It  seems  as  if  two  girls  could 
do  rny  work  without  my  being  obliged  to  clean  in  the 
kitchen." 

"  But  if  you  find  it  impossible  to  have  things  in  ordei 
without,  it  is  better  to  make  the  effort.  The  comfort 
you  will  experience  will  more  than  repay  you.  You 
always  take  care  of  the  parlours  and  your  own  room,  I 
believe  ?" 

"  Yes,  when  I  am  well.  Catharine  does  it  so  badly 
that  I  arn  obliged  to  do  it  to  keep  comfortable ;  and  this, 
with  the  plain  sewing  of  the  family,  which  I  endeavour 
to  do,  is  about  as  much  as  I  can  accomplish." 

"  I  think  you  would  do  better  to  change  with  her  oc 
casionally — to  put  up  with  her  careless  sweeping,  if  you 
cannot  teach  her  to  do  it  well,  while  you  go  into  the 
kitchen  once  or  twice  a  week,  or  as  often  as  you  find 
necessary,  and  see  that  things  are  arranged  to  your 
mind.  There  is  no  department  of  your  house  that 
should  be  trusted  entirely  to  your  servants — if  you  wish 
to  be  a  really  good  housekeeper,  you  should  keep  every 
thing  under  your  own  eye." 

"  But,  aunt,  it  would  be  impossible ;  with  such  health 
as  I  have,  it  would  make  me  a  perfect  drudge — a  slave. 
What  would  become  of  the  children  while  I  was  in  the 
kitchen,  cooking  steak,  &c.  ?" 

"  I  would  not  have  you  cook  the  steak  yourself,  but 
you  should  know  how  much  is  brought  into  the  house, 
and  whore  it  is  kept ;  and  whether  the  grate  is  clear 


118  MRS.    WINTERFORD   AND    HER    SERVANTS. 

from  ashes,  so  that  it  can  be  properly  cooked.  Youi 
visits  to  the  kitchen  may  be  biief,  but  they  should  be 
frequent  and  observing.  You  Avould  find,  if  you  super 
intended  Bridget's  work,  and  di\i  some  of  the  planning 
for  her,  that  you  would  gain  tim«  enough  to  repay  you. 
Catharine  would  not  need  to  go  into  the  kitchen  to  assist 
her  nearly  as  often  as  she  does,  and  thus  time  for  plain 
sewing  would  be  gained.  I  suppose  you  know  very  little 
about  cooking  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  took  lessons  of  Mrs.  S.'s  cook  before  I  was 
married,  but  I  often  made  failures,  and  I  dislike  to  do 
it  before  my  girls.  It  seems  to  encourage  them  in  doing 
wrong.  They  really  ought  to  know  more  about  it  than 
I,  for  they  have  done  it  all  their  lives." 

"  I  think,  my  dear  Mary,  that  you  have  had  a  very 
hard  task  with  your  lesson  in  housekeeping.  Your  inex 
perience  and  poor  health  have  been  serious  drawbacks. 
You  have  had  too  much  to  learn  at  once.  You  know 
nothing  about  the  care  of  children,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
the  worry  they  have  caused  you,  and  the  trouble  of  poor 
servants,  with  the  wish  to  have  everything  right,  and 
the  consciousness  that  it  was  not  so,  have  had  much  to 
do  with  your  ill  health.  I  have  always  felt  as  if  I  had 
a  matronly  duty  to  perform  to  my  sister's  child,  and  my 
own  namesake ;  but  my  family  has  been  so  large,  and 
my  cares  so  many,  that  I  have  had  little  time  to  think 
of  it  until  lately." 

"  Thank  you,  aunt.  I  think  you  are  doing  it  very 
well  now.  If  you  will  only  put  off  your  visit  to  Helen 
until  fall,  as  I  have  been  urging  you,  I  shall  be  very 


THE   SPARE   BED-ROOM.  119 

grateful,  and  you  will  have  the  consciousness  of  having 
performed  a  good  deed." 

"  Here  is  Aunt  Markham,  mamma — this  is  the  car 
riage,  isn't  it  ?"  cried  Willie  Winterford,  as  a  carriage 
drew  up  at  the  door  some  years  after  Mrs.  Markham's 
first  visit  to  the  Winterfords. 

Aunt  Markham  looked  as  young  and  hale  as  ever,  as 
she  descended  from  the  carriage,  and  grasped,  one  after 
another,  the  warm  hands  that  were  stretched  out  to 
welcome  her. 

"  And  you  too,  Bridget !"  she  said,  as  the  broad  Irish 
face  of  that  functionary  gleamed  good-naturedly  up  from 
the  end  of  the  hall,  to  add  her  welcome  to  the  rest; 
"are  you  here  yet?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Winterford.  "  Bridget  is 
part  and  parcel  of  us.  I  should  about  as  soon  think  of 
leaving  the  family  myself  as  of  having  her  to  leave  it. 
We  could  not  get  along  at  all  without  her." 


THE  SPARE  BED-ROOM. 

< 

MRS.  EDWARD  TRACY  was  said  to  have  been  brought 
up  and  trained  in  a  good  school  of  domestic  manage 
ment  and  family  economy ;  and,  as  a  general  rule,  she 
did  not  approve  of  spare  bed-rooms. 

It  was  all  very  well,  to  be  sure,  when  her  mother  or 
per  sister  paid  her  a  visit,  to  have  somewhere  to  put 


*20  THE    SPARE   BED-ROOM. 

Jicm ;  but  then  as  Mrs.  Brown,  her  mother,  said,  "Ton 
know,  dear,  that  I  don't  often,  and  when  I  or  Kate  do 
come,  it  would  be  easy  to  make  up  a  shake-down  foi 
Mr.  Tracy,  for  a  few  nights,  while  we  shared  your  bed." 

And  so,  no  doubt,  it  would  have  been,  if  Mr.  Tracy 
had  liked  the  plan  ;  but  he  didn't  like  it,  and  on  this 
point  he  showed  signs  of  intractability — very  unreason 
able,  as  Mrs.  T.  thought.  So  for  the  early  years  of  his 
married  life  the  gentleman  maintained  his  ground,  and 
kept  his  spare  bed-room. 

Mr.  Edward  Tracy  was  a  good-natured,  easy-tempered 
man,  in  a  small  way  of  business  as  a  merchant,  in  the 
flourishing  town  of  Blank  ;  that  is,  a  small  way  with  a 
qualification.  It  was  not  so  small  that  he  could  not 
afford  a  neat  little  private  residence  in  the  semi-genteel 
quarter  of  the  town ;  but  it  was  not  large  enough,  by 
any  means,  to  allow  him  to  keep  a  carriage,  nor  even  a 
riding  horse  :  but  then  he  did  not  want  either.  Neither 
was  it  so  small  that  he  had  ever  shrunk  from  entertain 
ing  a  friend  now  and  then ;  and  as  he  was  somewhat 
given  to  hospitality,  he  had  more  friends  of  a  sort,  than 
enemies  of  any  sort,  and  the  "now  and  then"  of  his 
visiters  were  not  like  angels'  visits,  few  and  far  between. 
But  neither  was  his  business  so  large  that  he  hadn't  taken 
a  long  time  for  consideration  before  entering  on  the 
grave  cares  of  matrimony ;  he  ventured  at  last,  however, 
%nd  was  congratulated  by  his  female  friends — those  of 
them,  at  any  rate,  who  were  already  settled  in  life — on 
having  chosen  so  good  a  help-meet  as  Miss  Brown ;  for 
everybody  knew,  said  they,  what  an  excellent  manager 
*icr  mother  is. 


THE    SPARE   BED-ROOM.  121 

Well,  and  so  she  was ;  and  so  also  did  Mrs.  Edward 
Tracy  prove  herself  to  be :  and  thence  did  it  arise  that 
there  was  one  point  on  which,  as  we  said,  Mr.  Tracy  and 
Mrs.  Tracy  could  not  agree — and  this  was  the  spare  bed 
room. 

Sometimes  the  disagreement  commenced  in  a  sort  of 
coaxing  way  : — "Edward,  dear,  what  a  nice  sitting-room 
that  spare  bed-room  would  make !  Such  a  charming 
prospect  from  the  window,  and  no  alteration  required 
but  to  take  down  the  bed,  and  put  in  a  few  extra  bits  of 
furniture.  The  same  paper-hanging  would  do,  and  the 
Bame  chairs  ;  and  you  know  we  have  only  that  little  par 
lour  down  stairs,  and  the  drawing-room  on  the  first  floor. 
Of  .course  we  don't  want  to  use  the  drawing-room  every 
day,  and  the  parlour  is  so  dull,  looking  out  into  the  dirty 
street,  as  it  does.  What  do  you  say,  dear?" 

"  I  would  have  no  objection  in  the  world,  Martha,  if 
you  would  turn  the  parlour  into  a  spare  bed-room." 

"Edward,  how  ridiculous!" 

"  I  cannot  see  any  other  way,  Martha,  love ;  for  you 
see  we  must  have  a  spare  bed  somewhere.  There's  your 
mother's  coming  to  spend  a  week  with  us  soon ;  and 
what  should  we  do  with  her  ?" 

Mrs.  Tracy  hinted  at  the  shake-down ;  but  it  would 
not  do.  "My  old  friend,  Jones,  is  coming  this  way 
next  month,  and  you  see  we  must  put  him  somewhere." 

Martha  gently  remarked  that  next  month  would  be  a 
very  inconvenient  time  to  receive  a  gentleman  visiter. 

"But  really,  my  dear,  I  cannot  help  it.  We  must 
try  and  make  it  convenient;  Jones  always  has,  for  I 
don't  know  how  many  years,  not  missing  one,  paid  me  a 


122  THE    SPARE    BED-ROOM. 

visit  in  August ;  and  I  told  him  that  being  married 
would  not  make  any  difference.  You  gave  me  leave  to 
Bay  that,  Martha,  love." 

"  Yes,  but  I  did  not  know  how  inconvenient  it  would 
be."  And  there,  f  )r  that  time,  the  conversation  dropped. 

Sometimes  the  disagreement  commenced  in  a  way  of 
economical  calculation.  Martha  was  a  good  hand  at 
reckoning:  she  could  demonstrate  to  a  penny  how  much 
every  visitor  added  to  the  expense  of  house-keeping. 

There  was  Mr.  Jones,  for  instance,  whom,  to  give  the 
lady  her  due  of  praise,  she  had  received  when  she  found 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  with  politeness,  and  treated  so 
that  he  had  no  cause  for  complaint ;  but  there  was  Mr. 
Jones,  who  had  prolonged  his  visit  to  a  week.  And  only 
think  how  much  that  visit  had  cost ! — so  much  for  meat, 
and  so  much  for  drink,  and  'twasn't  a  little  that  served 
him  either ;  and  so  much  for  candle-light,  and  so  much 
for  an  extra  help  for  a  whole  day  to  put  things  in  order 
after  he  had  left,  and  so  much  for  sheet-washing,  and 
towel-washing,  and  so  much  for — 

"  Well,  but,  Martha — ah,  Martha,  thou  carest  for 
many  things — but,  Martha,  I  reckon  these  extras  all  in 
the  lump  with  the  rest ;  I  always  have  done,  love,  and  I 
don't  see  that  I  am  much  the  poorer  for  them.  At  any 
rate,  I  can  manage  to  pay  my  way,  and  something  over ; 
and  that's  a  comfort.  But  I  really  think,  my  love,  you 
were  almost  too  kind  to  my  old  friend  Jones,  who  would 
Lave  been  quite  content,  I  am  sure,  with  our  plain  way 
•r  living  in  general,  instead  of — " 

Mrs.  Tracy  cut  her  husband  short  here.     She  had  no 


THE   SPARE   BED-ROOM.  123 

notion,  she  said,  of  doing  things  by  halves.  If  she 
must  have  visitors,  she  would  treat  them  as  visitors. 

"  And  why  not  as  friends,  my  love  ?  Just  hear  what 
Mr.  Emerson  says;"  and  Mr.  Tracy  took  up  a  book 
vrhich  he  had  been  reading  before  the  discussion  com 
menced,  and  read  as  follows  : — "  '  I  pray  you,  excellent 
wife,  involve  not  yourself  and  me,  to  get  a  curiously 
rich  dinner  for  thfs  man  or  woman  who  has  alighted 
at  our  gates ;  nor  a  bed-chamber  made  at  too  great  a 
cost ' " 

Here  Martha  began  to  listen  complacently:  "That's 
for  you,  Edward,  I  think." 

"  If  the  cap  fits  me,  I'll  wear  it,  my  love,  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure — '  nor  a  bed-chamber  made  up  at  too 
great  a  cost.  These  things,  if  they  are  curious  in  them, 
they  can  get  for  a  few  shillings  in  any  village.  But 
rather  let  the  stranger  see,  if  he  will,  in  your  looks, 
accent,  and  behaviour,  your 

"  I  am  sure  Mr.  Jones  has  no  right  to  complain  of  my 
looks,  and  accent,  and  behaviour,  Edward." 

"  No,  my  excellent  wife,  he  has  not ;  but  you  stop 
me  in  an  awkward  place  : — '  in  your  looks,  accent,  and 
behaviour,  your  heart  and  earnestness,  your  thought 
and  will,  what  he  cannot  buy  at  any  price  in  any  city, 
and  which  he  may  well  travel  twenty  miles,  and  dine 
sparely,  and  sleep  hardly,  to  behold.  Let  not  the  em 
phasis  of  hospitality  lie  in  bed  and  board ;  but  let  truth, 
and  love,  and  honour,  and  courtesy,  flow  in  thy  deeds." 

"All  very  pretty  for  a  man  to  write,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Tracy ;  "  but  give  the  men  the  trouble,  that's  all : — • 
fidgeting,  and  cooking,  and  bed-making  every  day." 


124  THE    SPARE    BED-ROOM. 

But  it  was  no  use  what  Martha  said.  For  the  time, 
her  husband  was  entrenched  in  his  stronghold  —  and 
that  was  the  spare  bed-room. 

Once,  however,  Mrs.  Tracy  gained  a  little  ground. 
There  was  a  Mr.  Smith,  and  also  a  Mrs.  Smith,  who, 
without  thinking  it  at  all  necessary  to  give  due  notice  of 
their  intentions,  just  looked  in  at  Hope  Cottage  for  a 
few  days,  in  the  course  of  an  autumn  excursion  they 
were  taking. 

"  Had  it  been  anywhere  else,  friend  Tracy,"  said  Mr. 
Smith,  while  making  himself  at  home  on  the  evening  of 
his  arrival,  "  I  would  have  sent  word  beforehand :  but 
said  I  to  my  wife — '  We  needn't  take  the  trouble,  for 
one  is  always  sure  of  a  welcome  at  this  house.  There's 
always  a  spare  bed-room  for  a  friend,  and  a  hearty  wel 
come  besides.'  Right  there;  wasn't  I?" 

What  Mr.  Tracy  said,  or  Mrs.  Tracy  thought,  but  did 
not  say,  in  reply,  is  no  matter.  The  Smiths  were  dull 
sort  of  people,  and  they  stuck  like  leeches.  Having 
taken  possession  of  the  spare  bed-room,  they  kept  pos 
session  so  long,  that  even  our  friend  Tracy's  hospitality 
and  patience  both  were  in  danger  of  giving  way,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  his  politeness.  Martha  kept  her  own 
counsel,  and  pretty  much  her  own  bed-room,  too,  under 
pretence  of  violent  headaches,  until  her  visitors  were 
fairly  gone ;  and  then  she  lost  her  headache,  and  re 
gained  her  speech. 

"Now,  Edward,  is  not  this  really  too  bad?" 

"  Well,  my  love,  if  you  mean  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith's 
making  our  house  their  inn,  in  so  free  and  easy  a  man- 


THE   SPARE   BED-ROOM.  125 

ner — yes,  I  think  so  too.  It  was  going  a  little  bit  too 
far." 

"  It  is  all  because  of  that  spare  bed-room,  which  you 
will  persist  in  keeping  up,  in  spite  of  all  I  can  say," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Tracy,  in  a  tone  of  genuine  vexation. 

"  There's  nothing  perfect  under  the  sun,  my  love : 
every  good  thing  has  its  attendant  evils,  and  may  be 
abused,"  replied  Mr.  Tracy,  philosophically. 

"  A  spare  bed-room  isn't  a  good  thing,  Mr.  Tracy — 
drawing  people  to  one's  house,  whether  or  not.  Wo 
might  as  well  set  up  a  common  lodging-house  or  an  inn. 
We  should  be  paid  for  our  trouble  then." 

"  But,  Martha,  dear,  what  should  we  do  when  friends 
whom  we  like  to  see,  pop  in  ?  There  are  some,  you 
know " 

"  And  if  they  are  real  friends,  they  wouldn't  mind  a 
little  inconvenience.  Why  not  let  them  sleep  out  of  the 
house  ?  I  dare  say  we  might  get  a  bed  at  some  neigh 
bour's,  for  a  night  or  two,  where  they  might  make  a 
profit  by  having  a  spare  bed-room.  I  am  sure  it  would 
be  better  to  pay  a  few  shillings  sometimes,  than  have 
all  the  trouble  of  sleeping  visitors  in  our  own  house,  and 
losing  the  use  of  the  room  for  ourselves." 

"  Tut — tut — tut !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tracy,  and  walked 

majestically  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house  also. 

******** 

Certain  events  happen  in  some  families,  which  over 
turn  all  existing  arrangements ;  and,  not  to  be  tedious, 
five  years  had  not  elapsed,  before  the  constant  dropping 
had  worn  away  the  great  stone.  In  other  words,  you 
might  have  searched  in  vain  from  the  bottom  to  the  top 


126  THE    SPARE    BED-ROOM. 

of  Hope  Cottage,  and  found  never  a  spare  bed-room. 
Mrs.  Tracy  had  gained  her  point :  the  institution  was 
abolished. 

Mr.  Jones  had  found  this  out,  by  being  thrown  out 
of  doors  on  the  first  night  of  one  of  his  annual  visits, 
to  make  the  best  he  could  of  a  cold,  dreary  attic,  which 
had  been  provided  for  him  in  a  draughty  old  house, 
some  distance  off,  where  he  lay  shivering  under  the 
dread  of  damp  sheets  and  nocturnal  companions.  He 
bore  the  infliction  with  a  good  grace,  however,  but  took 
care  to  shorten  his  visit ;  and  before  the  next  August 
rolled  round,  had  made  an  engagement  to  spend  his 
holiday  in  another  part  of  the  country,  with  a  friend, 
in  whose  house  spare  bed-rooms  were  not  put  out  of 
fashion. 

The  Smiths  had  found  it  out,  too,  and  left  Blank,  one 
day,  in  high  dudgeon,  not  twenty-four  hours  after  they 
entered  it  with  far  other  intentions  than  so  speedy  a 
decampment.  They  had  been  committed  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  next  inn,  with  a  cold  apology  for  the  ab 
sence  of  the  old  spare  bed-room.  They  never  troubled 
the  Tracys  with  another  visit. 

There  was  an  old  school-fellow,  and  stanch  friend  of 
Edward  Tracy,  who  was  subpoenaed  to  the  assizes  of 
Blank :  and  who,  never  doubting  of  a  welcome,  and  in 
woful  ignorance  of  the  change  which  time  had  wrought, 
marched  boldly  up  to  the  door  of  Hope  Cottage,  carpet 
bag  in  hand,  and  by  a  coup  de  main,  obtained  possession 
of  the  passage.  But  the  carpet-bag  was  doomed  to  gc 
no  further. 

And  we  don't  know  anything  more  humiliating  of 


THE    SPARE   BED-ROOM.  127 

humbling,  in  a  small  way,  than  to  be  turned  away  from 
the  very  doors  of  a  house  where  we  huve  foolishly  cal 
culated  on  an  extraordinary  and  enthusiastic  reception, 
with  the  full  assurance  that  we  have  reckoned  without 
our  host.  We  remember  once  to  have  been  placed  in 
such  a  predicament,  and  cannot,  to  this  day,  see  a  dog 
sneaking  along  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  without 
being  reminded  of  our  mortification.  We  have  taken 
care,  ever  since,  to  make  no  more  such  blunders.  But 
this  is  a  digression. 

There  was  a  brother  of  Edward  Tracy,  who  said  that, 
spare  bed  or  no  spare  bed,  he  wasn't  going  to  budge  an 
inch,  to  say  nothing  of  being  turned  out  of  doors  at 
midnight.  So  he  rolled  himself  up  in  his  cloak,  and 
with  a  brotherly  recommendation  to  "Ned,"  to  "go  to 
bed  and  be  bothered,"  threw  himself  on  the  hearth-rug 
before  the  fire,  and  made  a  spare  bed  of  that. 

There  were  rooms  enough  in  Hope  Cottage  for  every 
other  purpose ;  but  had  the  house  been  twice  as  large, 
it  would  not,  under  the  new  dynasty,  have  been  largo 
enough  for  a  spare  bed-room :  and  herein  lay  the  excel 
lent  thrift  of  our  good  manager,  who  judiciously  reckoned 
that  every  night's  occupation  of  a  spare  bed-room  by  a 
guest,  invited  or  uninvited,  involved  sundry  other  items 
in  the  way  of  dinnerings,  supperings,  breakfastings,  and 
so  forth,  in  the  ordinary  way,  to  say  nothing  of  extra 
ordinary  night-caps,  neither  of  silk,  woollen,  nor  cotton. 

There  were  inconveniences,  to  be  sure,  in  this  pru 
dential  course ;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  worked  well,  Mar 
tha  said ;  and  as  she  kept  her  housekeeping  book  on  the 
most  approved  and  systematically  exact  plan,  who  could 


128  THE    SPAKE   BED-ROOM. 

know,  if  it  did  not?  Not  Edward  Tracy,  certainly, 
who  now  and  then  wondered  what  had  become  of  so 
many  of  his  old  friends,  who,  so  far  as  he  knew,  had 
neither  fled  the  country,  nor  found  a  spare  bed  in  mo 
ther  earth;  but  who,  to  him.  were  as  much  lost  as  though 
they  had  never  existed.  And  sometimes  he  sighed  when 
he  remembered  with  what  pleasure  he  had  once  been 
wont  to 

"  Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  parting  guest." 

But  these  were  only  occasional  thoughts,  for  he  ac 
knowledged  that,  after  all,  it  saved  a  vast  deal  of  trouble 
in  entertaining  visiters,  to  have  it  widely  known  that  his 

hospitality  did  not  include  both  board  and  lodging. 
******** 

There  was  a  letter  one  morning — nothing  very  unu 
sual  in  that — but  the  letter  was  from  an  unusual  corre 
spondent.  In  some  far,  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the 
country,  lived  an  elderly  maiden,  distant  cousin  of  Mr. 
Tracy.  Poor  Miss  Fryer !  The  world  hadn't  used  her 
•well,  or  somebody  in  the  world  had  not.  Once  upon  a 
time,  when  she  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world  were  half 
a  century  younger,  she  had  no  lack  of  friends,  for  she 
was  rich:  but  riches  had  taken  to  themselves  wings, 
and  Miss  Fryer  became  poor. 

"  Bless  me !"  said  Mr.  Tracy,  opening  the  epistle, 
"  if  here  isn't  a  letter  from  poor  Cousin  Peggy ;  and 
Martha — I  say,  Martha,"  he  continued,  "  couldn't  we, 
just  for  once,  put  up  a  spare  bed  in  the  old  room,  for  a 
day  or  two  ?" 

A  spare  bed  !  bless  the  man,  what  did  he  mean  ? 


THE   SPARE   BED-ROOM.  129 

"Why,  Martha,  here's  poor  Cousin  Peggy,  writes,  and 
tells  me  she  is  coming  to  Blank,  and  she  wants  me  to 
take  her  m  for  a  day  or  two." 

A  pretty  thing  indeed,  that :  no,  no,  Mrs.  Tracy  said  ; 
she  wasn't  going  to  have  that  trouble,  she  was  sure.  If 
Miss  Fryer  must  come  to  Blank — though  what  such  an 
elderly  person  could  Avant  to  be  gadding  about  for,  she 
could  not  conceive ;  but  if  she  must  come,  they  must 
do  the  best  they  could  with  her,  she  supposed,  but  as  to 
her  sleeping  in  the  house — no,  no.  She  must  do  as 
their  other  visitors  did — put  up  with  the  bed  over  the 
way. 

"  But,  Martha,  love,  poor  Peggy  used  to  be  very  kind 
to  me  when  I  was  a  boy.  Many's  the  sixpence  she  has 
slipped  into  my  pocket ;  and,  poor  old  soul,  she'll  be 
frightened  to  death  to  go  into  a  strange  house  and  sleep 
away  from  her  friends.  A  strange  whim,  certainly,  of 
poor  Peggy,  to  travel  so  far  from  home ;  but  as  she  has 
taken  it  into  her  head,  why,  Martha,  love,  let  us  see  if 
we  can't  make  her  comfortable." 

But  Martha  was  obdurate. 

"  Very  well,  my  love,  then  you  must  take  it  into  your 
iwn  hands,  for  I  won't,"  said  Mr.  Tracy. 

Poor  Miss  Fryer  made  her  appearance  at  the  time 
ehe  had  fixed.  A  little  shrivelled  and  wrinkled,  shaky 
old  lady,  in  an  old-fashioned,  faded  silk  pelisse,  which 
had  been  laid  up  in  lavender  it  would  be  hard  to  say 
bow  many  years.  She  was  sadly  nervous  at  finding 
herself  so  many  miles  from  home,  among  so  many 
strange  faces : — even  little  Ned,  as  she  persisted  in  call 
ing  Mr.  Tracy,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  Mrs.  Tracy, 
9 


130  THE   SPARE   BED-ROOM. 

was  so  altered,  she  declared,  that  she  shouldn't  nav« 
known  him  again. 

On  the  cause  of  her  journey,  Miss  Fryer  was  myste 
riously  silent ;  she  had  a  little  business  to  transact  in 
the  morning,  or  the  next  day,  or  the  next  day  after  that, 
she  said,  and  perhaps  she  might  get  little  Ned  to  help 
her  in  it ;  hut  she  couldn't  say  more  than  that.  And 
where  should  she  put  her  hox  ?  It  was  not  a  big  one, 
she  said,  for  she  didn't  wish  to  cumber  little  Ned's  house 
up  too  much ;  and  might  she  (for  all  this  passed  in  the 
first  five  minutes  after  the  coach  had  "dropped  her 
down"  at  Mr.  Tracy's  door), — might  she  step  into  her 
bed-room  to  set  herself  to  rights  a  little  ? 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course;  but," and  then — "little 

Ned"  slipping  out  of  the  room — came  the  explanation, 
curt,  and  straightforward,  and  blank,  from  Martha's 
lips ;  Miss  Fryer  was  welcome  to  step  into  her  (Martha's) 
room,  to  make  any  little  change  of  dress  she  might  re 
quire  ;  but  as  there  wasn't  a  spare  bed-room  in  the 
house,  Miss  Fryer's  box  should  be  taken  over  the  way, 
where  Mr.  Tracy  had  engaged  a  bed  for  her  for  a  night 
or  two,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  "night  or  two,"  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  There,  now,  you  know  your  doom." 

There  was  an  astonishing  composure  in  the  little  old 
maid's  reception  of  this  astounding  announcement. 
Well,  she  was  but  a  little  body,  and  she  had  reckoned 
she  might  have  been  put  in  some  closet  or  other,  but  it 
did  not  signify  at  all ;  only  she  wouldn't  trouble  Mrs. 
Tracy  to  send  her  box  over  the  way  at  present,  if  she 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  give  it  house-room  for  an  hour 
or  two.  And,  now  she  thought  of  it,  she  had  a  call  to 


THE   SPARE   BED-ROOM.  131 

make  in  the  town,  and  she  would  go  while  her  pelisse 
was  on,  and  that  would  save  a  world  of  trouble.  There 
was  no  occasion  for  Mr.  Tracy  to  trouble  himself  to  go 
with  her.  It  was  a  good  while,  to  be  sure,  since  she 
was  in  Blank,  but  she  could  find  her  way ;  and  nodding 
and  smiling  benignantly,  and  almost  condescendingly 
on  Mrs.  Tracy,  the  little  old  lady  tripped  out  at  the 
door,  and  was  gone  before  Martha  could  have  counted 
twenty. 

Mr.  Tracy  and  Martha  had  not  finished  their  wonder 
ment  at  poor  Peggy's  erratic  motions,  when  a  fresh 
cause  for  wonderment  sprang  up.  A  knock  at  the  door, 
a  livery  servant,  and  Mr.  Hodges'  compliments,  and  he 
had  sent  for  Miss  Fryer's  little  box.  The  lady  was 
going  to  stay  at  Mr.  Hodges'. 

At  Mr.  Hodges' !— Mr.  Hodges  !— Hodges  !  The 
aristocratic  solicitor  !  There  must  be  some  mistake. 

No,  not  half  a  one.  There  was  poor  Peggy,  and 
there  she  meant  to  be ;  and  thither  her  little  box  fol 
lowed  her,  on  the  shoulders  of  a  porter  whom  the  livery 
servant  brought  with  him — he  being  too  grand,  by  three 
yards  of  gold  lace,  to  carry  a  box  through  Blank,  even 
for  his  master. 

The  mystery  did  not  last  many  days.  There  was  au 
estate  and  an  intestate  death,  and  there  were  title-deeds, 
and  there  had  been  a  search  for  the  next  heir  or  heiress; 
and  there  was  Miss  Fryer,  whom  the  persevering  Mr. 
Hodges  had  hunted  out  in  her  obscurity ;  and  there  had 
been  letters  passing  backwards  and  forwards,  and  there 
were  letters  of  administration  taken  out,  and  oaths  to 
be  taken,  and  signatures  to  be  written,  and  powers  to 


132  THE    SPARE   BED-ROOM. 

be  granted,  and  lawyers  best  know  what  besides.  And 
Miss  Fryer  must  come  to  Blank ;  and  should  Mr.  Hodgea 
send  his  carriage  for  her  ?  and  would  she  honour  him 
by  making  his  house  her  home  while  she  should  stay  at 
Blank? 

All  this  had  passed  and  re-passed ;  but  Miss  Fryer 
remembered  her  "  little  Ned,"  and  her  old  love  for  him, 
and  thought  that  she  would  pay  him  a  visit,  as  poor 
Cousin  Peggy,  and  had  made  herself  happy  with  thinking 
of  the  agreeable  surprise  she  should  create  by  appearing 
before  him,  in  the  end,  a  full  blown  gentlewoman, 

"  With  a  plentiful  estate." 

But  Miss  Fryer  didn't  want  perception,  and  had  as 
much  weakness  in  her  way,  as  Martha  Tracy  had  in 
hers.  And  without  deigning  to  call  again  at  the  house 
where  she  had  received  so  cool  a  reception,  and  refusing 
even  to  see  "little  Ned,"  when  he  made  a  call  at  Mr. 
Hodges',  she  started  homewards,  in  the  attorney's  car 
riage,  as  soon  as  the  "little  business"  was  settled. 

Nobody  knows  how  Miss  Fryer  has  made  her  will,  or 
to  whom  the  estate  will  descend ;  but  we  fear  our  friend 
Edward  Tracy  will  have  but  a  small  slice  of  poor  Cousin 
Peggy's  leavings. 

They  say  he  has  fitted  up  his  spare  bed-room  again. 
But  such  a  chance  for  a  good  legacy  doesn't  happen 
every  day  in  the  year ;  and  we  fear  that  Mr.  Tracy  haa 
"locked  the  stable-door  after  the  steed  is  stolen." 


DUTY  TO  PARENTS. 

How  seldom  do  children  repay  all  they  owe  to  the 
parents  who  have  fostered  their  days  of  helplessness! 
how  seldom  do  they  reflect  on  the  magnitude  of  their 
obligations  towards  them !  The  old  father  or  mother 
are  shoved  aside,  while  we  shower  our  loving  attentions 
on  a  stranger.  We  appear  to  fancy  that,  because  we 
can  be  kind  to  them  any  day,  their  claims  may  be  inde 
finitely  postponed — they  may  "manage"  while  the  alien 
is  courted.  Like  our  Maker,  they,  our  earthly  fathers, 
have  the  least  portion  of  our  time.  And  yet  we  would 
not  willingly  be  ungrateful  to  Deity  or  parent — we  own 
our  vast  debt  to  each,  but  in  words  only — we  make  no 
attempt  to  repay  it,  though  they  are  not  harsh  credit 
ors,  and  though  so  little  would  satisfy  them. 

Why  is  it  so  ?  Is  it  because  use  has  deadened  grati 
tude  ?  We  are  so  accustomed  to  accept  parental  sacri 
fices  that  they  become  matters  of  course ;  we  take  them 
as  habitually  as  our  daily  bread,  and  they  excite  as  little 
emotion  and  thankfulness ;  yet  if  either  were  denied  us, 
we  should  make  the  air  resound  with  our  clamorous  com 
plaints.  Stop  the  supplies,  and  we  discover  how  neces 
sary  they  have  been  to  our  well-being  and  comfort. 
When  deprived  of  a  parent's  cherishing  presence  and 
support,  we  find  our  irreparable  loss ;  so,  when  unable 
to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  religious  communion  and  thanks 
giving,  we  first  truly  appreciate  their  inestimable  value. 

No  more  than  we  need  always  be  in  an  ecstasy  of 


134  DUTY   TO   PARENTS. 

prayer,  i?  it  necessary  that  we  should  be  everlastingly 
chanting  the  parental  praises;  but  we  should  at  least 
foster,  even  when  we  do  not  express  gratitude ;  and  then 
we  should  find  a  thousand  channels  for  giving  vent  to  the 
feelings.  Once  excited,  it  will  easily  show  itself.  Tho 
great  danger  is  our  liability  to  forget,  or  rather  never  to 
think  on  the  subject.  Want  of  reflection  is  the  rock  on 
which  we  split. 

There  are  but  few  among  us  who  have  not  even  exag 
gerated  ideas  of  filial  love  on  paper — how  far  do  we 
carry  them  out  ?  We  would  gladly,  like  Mademoiselle 
de  Sombreint,  the  French  heroine,  swallow  the  cup  of 
human  blood,  drain  the  disgusting  potion  to  the  dregs, 
to  save  a  father's  life  ;  but  are  we  sufficiently  careful  of 
his  every-day  comforts  ? 

We  may  never  be  called  on  to  risk  our  lives  for  a  pa 
rent's— ^-to  place  our  honour  in  the  scale  against  theirs — 
their  existence — to  purchase  their  comforts  by  the  sacri 
fice  of  a  broken  heart — to  do  one  of  the  thousand-and- 
one  things  that  are  so  beautifully  interesting  in  history 
and  romance.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  we 
would  cheerfully  die  for  them.  Pride  carries  us  on — 
pride  and  excitement ;  we  scarcely  feel  the  sacrifice  ;  but 
could  we  daily  offer  ourselves  up,  in  petty,  ignoble  efforts, 
often  unnoticed  and  unrewarded  ?  These  are  the  diffi 
culties  which  try  affection ;  and  yet,  as  more  heroical 
actions  are  seldom  or  never  required  from  us,  in  these 
alone  can  our  affection  be  fairly  tested — on  them  do  our 
parents'  comforts  chiefly  depend. 

The  savoury  mess  for  the  old  man — affection  endeared 
it  to  Isaac.  It  was  not  mere  gluttony  that  drew  down 


DUTY   TO   PARENTS.  135 

that  warm  blessing  on  the  impostor's  head.  No ,  tho 
patriarch  felt  grateful  for  many  small  attentions  which 
had  lightened  the  weight  of  years.  His  wishes  had  been 
consulted,  his  tastes  remembered.  "Bless  me,  too,  oh 
my  father  !"  Alas  !  may  it  never  be  our  fate  to  utter 
that  cry  in  vain  !  may  it  never  arise  too  late  ! 

I  am  not  now  speaking  of  the  commonly  respectful 
demeanour,  of  the  provision  which  every  child  of  com 
monly  good  feeling  would  allow  the  dependent  parent — I 
wish  to  avoid  all  approaching  to  an  extreme  case,  and  to 
confine  myself  to  the  commonest  routine  of  daily  duties. 
It  may  be  our  fate  to  be  placed  in  circumstances  which 
oblige  us  to  take  a  different  view  of  duties  from  our  pa 
rents.  They  may  require  what  we  cannot  grant ;  but 
every-day  attentions  are  always  in  our  power,  and  will 
sweeten  an  unavoidable  opposition.  We  can  remember 
the  favourite  dishes,  and  procure  them,  as  our  infant 
tastes  were  consulted,  or  give  up  our  employment  to  join 
in  the  nightly  rubber  :  it  may  be  tiresome,  but  how  often 
did  they  throw  aside  their  pursuits  to  comply  with  our 
childish  requests  !  We  may  differ  in  opinion  with  them, 
but  we  need  not  parade  our  difference  before  the  world  ; 
ten  to  one  we  may  be  right ;  for  each  year  impercepti 
bly  brings  new  ideas  and  manners  which  they  are  slow 
to  perceive,  but  we  need  not  painfully  force  the  change 
on  them.  Old  age  fondly  looks  back  to  the  scenes  of 
youth — let  them  not  see  that  their  children  scorn  feel 
ings,  institutions,  hopes,  that  were  so  dear  to  them. 
There  has  been  such  a  mighty  advance  within  the  last 
few  years — we  have  enjoyed  such  numberless  advan 
tages — that  there  is  but  small  vanity  in  supposing  that 


136  DUTY   TO   PARENTS. 

we  may  be  wiser  than  our  forefathers ;  but  must  we 
therefore  constantly  contradict  their  most  cherished  pre 
judices  ?  Let  us  at  least  dissent  in  silence.  When  we 
yield,  let  it  be  cheerfully :  let  them  not  feel  that  :he 
attentions  on  which  their  comfort  &o  depends  are  unwil 
lingly  bestowed. 

A  soothing  voice,  modulated  to  the  deadened  ear  of 
age ;  a  willing  compliance  with  little  whims ;  a  con 
stantly  respectful  manner ;  these  are  proofs  of  gratitude 
daily  within  our  power,  and  but  too  seldom  rendered. 
The  common  politeness  instantly  granted  to  a  stranger 
is  seldom  accorded  to  the  parent,  even  when  we  love 
them  most  dearly.  Should  we  like  this  manner  adopted 
towards  ourselves  ?  It  has  been  well  observed  that  the 
Christian's  golden  rule,  "  Do  unto  others  as  ye  would  be 
done  by,"  is  the  most  perfect  code  of  good  manners. 

The  impatient  tone  when  called  on  to  repeat  some 
trivial  remark,  the  careless  way  in  which  we  assist  in 
their  amusements,  are  alike  wrong,  and  wounding  to 
them. 

A  stranger  calls  on  us  for  some  hackneyed  air.  We 
instantly  smile,  and  comply  with  his  demand,  while  papa 
is  snubbed,  if  his  favourite  tune  be  not  ours  also.  It 
sometimes  becomes  necessary  to  check  the  garrulity  of 
age ;  this  to  a  well-disposed  mind  is  a  most  painful  task 
— then  let  it  be  done  kindly  and  respectfully. 

How  often,  too,  do  we  see  daughters  lolling  on  their 
sofa  while  their  mother  is  toiling  in  the  household  ?  Can 
we  believe  in  affection  which  quiets  itself  by  the  remark, 
"that  poor  mamma  is  so  very  active  ?"  Why  is  she  so, 
young  lady  ?  Because  you,  in  your  thoughtlessness, 


THE    TWO    PARTINGS.  137 

allow  it.  It  has  continued  from  year  to  year — from 
•when  you  were  too  young  to  remember ;  and  therefore 
it  never  strikes  you  that  your  duty  should  bid  it  cease. 
Your  mother  is  as  well  fitted  for  leisure,  elegant  or  other 
wise,  as  yourself.  Your  selfish  indolence  alone  denies 
it  her,  and  yet  you  calmly  sign  yourself  her  "  affec 
tionate  daughter."  '  Is  it  right,  also,  that  she  should  be 
meanly  dressed,  while  you  step  out  arrayed  like  a  print 
in  a  fashion-book  ?  How  calmly  you  appropriate  her 
ornaments,  plume  yourself  in  her  feathers !  Take  her 
place  for  awhile ;  relieve  her  of  some  portion  of  her 
cares.  Thus  only  can  we  hope  that  your  weekly  prayer 
has  been  heard;  that  you  do  "honour  your  father  and 
your  mother ;"  that  you  have  been  "  enabled  to  keep 
this  law." 


THE  TWO  PARTINGS. 
A  PAGE  FROM  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

IT  was  yet  early  in  the  autumn ;  but,  from  the  great 
maples  that  grew  on  either  side  my  mother's  door,  leaves 
gloriously  red  and  golden  dropped  one  by  one ;  or  when 
the  merry  wind  called  for  them  as  it  passed,  came  down 
in  little  rustling  showers,  and  danced  along  with  their 
gay  companion,  quite  wild,  it  seemed,  to  find  themselves, 
for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  so  far  away  from  home. 

I  sat  upon  the  door-step,  where  the  afternoon  sun  fell 
broad  and  warm,  and  watched  the  wind  and  the  whirl 
ing  leaves  with  a  heavy  heart. 


38  THE   TWO   PARTINGS. 

For  a  long  time  I  had  not  moved  nor  made  the  least 
Bound,  nor  scarcely  dared  to  breathe,  for  my  poor  little 
brother's  head  rested  in  my  lap.  He  was  sleeping,  and 
I  would  not  have  f.woke  him  for  the  world. 

As  he  lay  there,  so  white  and  still  in  the  clear  sun 
light,  I  could  see  how  ill  he  looked,  and  I  felt  that  what 
the  doctor  said  was  true.  Alfred  must  die.  He  would 
go  and  live  among  the  angels  ;  and,  instead  of  the  little, 
shrivelled,  deformed  body  that  had  given  him  so  much 
Buffering  here,  he  would  wear  a  form  as  lovely  as  hia 
beautiful,  dear  face  had  always  been.  He  would  be  well 
and  strong.  He  could  run  and  leap  like  other  boys.  He 
would  not  need  me  there,  to  wheel  him  through  the  gar 
den-walks,  nor  to  gather  for  him  the  flowers  he  loved. 
But  I — what  should  I  do  ? — oh  !  what  should  I  do  with 
out  my  brother  ?  The  tears  I  had  so  long  suppressed, 
and  sobs  I  could  not  control,  burst  forth  in  a  sudden 
flood  of  grief,  and  shook  me  from  head  to  foot.  He 
opened  his  loving  eyes.  He  drew  down  my  face  to  his 
with  both  hands,  and  kissing  me  said,  in  his  own  sweet 
voice,  that  was  always  soft  and  cheerful, 

"  Don't  cry,  Molly,  don't  !  You  wouldn't,  if  you 
knew  how  happy  I  am." 

But  I  only  sobbed  the  more  bitterly.  "  What  shall  I 
do?  What  shall  I  do ?" 

"  It  won't  be  for  so  very  long,  Molly,"  he  said ;  "  and 
I  shan't  be  really  gone,  you  know.  I  shall  be  near  you 
all  the  time,  and  shall  love  you  just  the  same.  No  mat 
ter  how  pleasant  Heaven  is,  I  will  never  forget  you  for 
one  mir  ute,  dear  Molly — never,  never  !  No ;  not  if  you 


THE   TWO   PARTINGS.  139 

stay  here  years,  and  years,  and  years,  I  will  never  stop 
loving  you — I  will  never  get  tired  of  waiting  for  you." 

"  But  I  won't  stay  years  and  years,"  I  cried,  passion 
ately  ;  "  I  don't  want  to  stay  years  and  years.  I  want 
to  die.  I  want  to  go  with  you.  I  will  pray  to  God 
every  day.  I  will  tell  Him  I  do  not  want  to  live  in  this 
hatf  ful  world  without  you,  and  He  will  let  me  go — I 
know  He  will  let  me  go." 

I  knew,  in  my  heart,  that  these  were  wicked  words  ; 
and  when  I  saw  the  trouble  in  my  brother's  face,  I 
feared  he  was  going  to  tell  me  that  I  was  a  very  naughty 
girl,  as  I  surely  deserved  he  >should.  But  he  said, 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  selfish  to  think  so  much 
about  going  to  Heaven,  and  to  feel  so  happy  thinking 
of  it,  when  you  cannot  go,  too.  I  am  sure,  if  it  had 
been  any  pleasant  place  in  this  world,  I  should  not  have 
felt  so ;  but  somehow  Heaven  seemed  different.  Still,  I 
know  I  have  been  selfish.  Dear  Molly,  forgive  me,  won't 
you  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly,  while  the  great  tears  gathered 
in  his  eyes.  "  I  would  stay  if  I  could.  I  would  not 
leave  you  if  God  would  let  me  stay." 

Such  gentle  words  were  harder  to  bear  than  any  re 
proach.  They  filled  my  heart  with  shame,  and,  in  a 
voice  broken  by  fresh  sobs,  I  begged  him  to  be  happy 
again,  and  said  I  was  glad  he  was  going,  and  that  he 
had  never  been  selfish,  but  always  so  kind  and  good,  just 
as  good  as  God's  angels,  and  it  was  I  who  was  a  wicked, 
wicked,  selfish  girl ;  but,  if  he  would  only  be  happy  once 
more,  I  would  be  happy  too.  Yes,  I  said  again,  I  was 
glad  he  was  going  ;  and  I  should  be  happier  than  I  had 
ever  been  in  all  my  life,  thinking  of  him  in  Heaven.  I 


140  THE    TWO    PARTINGS. 

was  happy  now !  And  I  dried  my  eyes  hastily  on  the 
corner  of  my  apron,  and,  pushing  back  my  hair,  looked 
at  him  and  smiled.  I  am  afraid  it  was  not  a  very  joy 
ous  smile,  but  it  restored  the  cheerfulness  to  his  face, 
and  a  sudden  peace  to  my  own  heart,  so  that  my  tears 
flowed  back  to  their  source,  and  seemed  to  lie  there  like 
a  clear  and  tranquil  pool  in  which  the  heavens  are  re 
flected. 

For  some  moments  we  sat  in  silence.  Then  he  said, 
thoughtfully, 

"  Mother  will  miss  me,  too;  and  Bobby.  I  know  you 
will  do  all  you  can  for  mother,  to  make  her  happy ;  and 
for  Bob.  Poor  Bob  !  I  am  going  to  Heaven,  where  ;t 
is  always  summer ;  and,  by-and-bye,  you  and  mother 
will  come  too;  but  poor  Bobby  will  never  go  to  his  homo, 
in  the  beautiful  island  that  Uncle  Robert  brought  him 
from.  When  it  snows,  Molly,  will  you  turn  the  back  of 
his  cage  to  the  window,  and  put  the  geraniums  and  the 
rose-tree  where  he  can  see  them,  so  that  he  may  think  it 
is  summer  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  solemnly,  "  I  will  do  all  you  say, 
and  everything  I  can  think  of  to  make  you  happy." 

"  And  tell  Uncle  Robert,  when  he  comes,  that  I  left 
my  love  for  him.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  stayed 
and  seen  him,  but  I  shall  not  be  here  then.  Tell  him 
how  tame  Bob  is,  and  how  much  I  loved  him,  and  how 
sweetly  he  sings,  and  what  fun  we  have  had  with  him. 
Will  you  help  me  in,  now,  Molly  ?"  he  added,  after  a 
pause ;  "  I  am  tired,  and  should  like  to  go  to  bed." 

Two  weeks  had  passed,  and  the  crimson  of  our  maples 


THE   TWO   PARTINGS.  l4l 

let  through  great  patches  of  sunny  sky  ;  in  the  chestnut- 
grove,  the  ripe  nuts  rustled  down  through  their  scanty, 
yellow  foliage;  and,  like  the  little  robins  of  old  that 
covered  the  children  in  the  wood,  a  gentle  wind  fluttered 
into  the  church-yard,  bringing  the  bright  fall  leaves,  and 
dropped  them  silently  on  a  new-made  grave,  where  we 
had  laid  the  little  earthly  garment  our  angel  had  worn 
•whilst  he  was  with  us. 

I  sat  there  all  alone,  and  I  was  happy  just  as  I  toll! 
Freddy  I  would  be  ;  for  I  thought  of  him  all  day,  and 
I  dreamed  at  night  such  bright  dreams !  so  full  of  soft, 
angelic  voices,  and  radiant  faces,  and  sunshine  that  came 
to  me  from  my  darling  brother's  new  home.  And  the 
words  he  spoke,  too,  that  last  day,  kept  murmuring  in 
my  heart  like  a  living  fountain  of  perfect  trust — 

"  I  shan't  be  really  gone,  you  know.  I  shall  be  near 
you  all  the  time,  and  shall  love  you  just  the  same." 

How  could  I  be  otherwise  than  happy  ?  I  was  willing 
now  to  stay  in  this  world  years  and  years.  Yes,  I  was 
willing  to  stay  a  thousand  years,  I  thought,  if  God 
wanted  me  to,  and  if  He  would  only  help  me  to  grow 
more  and  more  like  Alfred,  so  that  when,  at  last,  it 
was  time  for  me  to  go  to  him,  he  might  see  I  had  tried 
to  be  a  good  girl,  and  was  worthy  to  live  with  him,  and 
be  his  own  sister.  I  knew  God  had  promised  to  help  all 
who  tried,  and  I  intended  to  try  very  hard. 

Full  of  these  musings,  I  arose  from  the  grass,  by  the 
little  grave  where  I  had  been  sitting,  and  pursued  my 
way  homeward. 

Only  one  thought  troubled  me.  Since  Freddy  left  us 
Bob  had  drooped,  and  would  not  sing.  I  dressed  his  cage 


142  THE   TWO   PARTINGS. 

with  evergreens.  I  fed  him  on  apples  and  sugar.  I 
petted,  and  talked  to  him  :  I  talked  to  him  of  Freddy, 
but  he  only  answered  by  a  plaintive  chirp  that  went 
straight  to  my  heart.  It  seemed  to  say,  "  He  has  gone 
to  his  heaven,  and,  by-and-bye,  you  will  go  too.  But 
my  bright  home  is  far,  far  away ;  there  my  brother  sits 
alone,  in  the  great  tree,  and  mourns  for  me,  and  I  shall 
never  go  to  him — never,  never  !" 

So,  as  I  went  towards  home,  my  thoughts  turned  to 
Bobby,  and  the  promise  I  had  given  my  brother  to  do 
all  I  could  for  the  happiness  of  his  little  pet. 

I  was  so  absorbed  that  I  walked  straight  up  the  gar 
den-path  to  the  door,  before  I  saw  that  some  one  stood 
there,  and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  me. 

He  caught  me  in  his  arms,  and  carrying  me  into  the 
house,  sat  down,  and  placed  me  on  his  knee.  It  was  my 
dear,  kind  Uncle  Robert. 

"  Oh,  uncle  !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Have  you  been  hero 
long  ?" 

"No,  my  pet,  not  ten  minutes,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice 
which  he  tried  to  make  steady  and  cheerful,  for  my  mo 
ther's  sake  and  mine ;  but  he  was  greatly  agitated,  for 
the  news  of  Alfred's  death  had  come  upon  him  suddenly, 
and  he  loved  my  brother  very  much.  I  hid  my  face  in 
his  bosom,  and  for  a  time  we  sat  quite  silent. 

At  length  I  whispered,  softly,  "  Freddy  left  a  message 
for  you,  uncle.  He  left  his  love  for  you  ;  and  he  would 
have  liked  to  have  waited  and  seen  you,  but  he  could 
not.  And  he  said  Bob  had  grown  very  tame,  and  he 
loved  him  very  much,  and  he  sang  very  sweetly,  and  wa 
had  a  great  deal  of  fun  with  him." 


THE   TWO   PARTINGS.  143 

I  supprse  Uncle  Robert  could  not  trust  himself  to 
reply  to  this  message,  for  he  only  said,  "  To-morrow, 
Molly,  I  must  be  off.  We  are  bound  for  another  long 
voyage." 

"  Where  to,  uncle  ?"  I  asked. 

"  To  the  Southern  Seas  again." 

"  To  the  island  where  Bobby  came  from  ?"  I  inquired, 
eagerly. 

"  Yes,  to  poor  Bob's  old  home." 

I  looked  at  him  with  wistful  eyes,  and  my  heart  flut 
tered  ;  for  a  new,  bright  thought  had  come  into  it,  and 
I  dared  not  speak  lest  he  should  refuse  me — lest  he 
should  oppose  me. 

"What  does  my  Molly  want?"  he  asked,  tenderly 
smoothing  my  hair.  "  Speak  out,  little  one.  Anything, 
within  the  range  of  possibility,  I  will  do  for  you.  I 
would  bring  you  home  the  whole  Archipelago  in  my 
pocket,  if  I  could." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  say  no,  though,  or  you  will  try 
to  persuade  me  not." 

"  I  will  not  say  no,  if  it  is  possible  to  say  yes ;  and  I 
will  not  try  to  persuade  you  not.  Honour  bright !"  he 
said,  smiling,  "  I  promise  I  will  not  raise  a  single  objec 
tion,  not  even  if  you  ask  me  to  kidnap  a  young  savage 
for  you  to  play  with." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  bring  ne  anything.  It's  about 
Bobby."  I  hesitated. 

*'  Go  on  !"  said  my  uncle,  encouragingly. 

And  I  continued  :  "  Just  before  Freddy  went  to  Hea 
ven,  he  said  he  was  so  sorry  for  Bob,  because  he  had 
been  taken  away  from  his  beautiful  island,  that  was  like 


144  THE    TWO    PARTINGS. 

Heaven  to  him.  And  he  asked  me,  would  I  turn  the 
back  of  his  cage  to  the  window  when  it  snowed,  and 
would  I  put  the  flowers  by  him,  and  would  I  do  every 
thing  I  could  to  make  him  happy  ?  and  I  promised  I 
would  ;  and  I  have  done  all  I  can,  and  he  is  not  happy. 
He  thinks  about  Freddy,  and  he  thinks  about  his  own 
brother  in  the  beautiful  island,  and  he  will  not  sing.  But 
I  know  what  would  make  him  happy  ;  and  I  want  you 
to  take  him  back  with  you  to  his  own  home,  where  his 
brother  is  waiting  for  him,  just  as  Freddy  is  waiting  for 
me,  only  Freddy  knows  I  shall  be  sure  to  go  to  him 
some  day,  but  Bob  cannot  go  unless  you  take  him,  be 
cause  little  birds  are  not  like  little  boys,  you  know;  they 
do  not  live  for  ever." 

I  paused,  quite  out  of  breath,  and  looked  eagerly  for 
a  ivply,  but  my  uncle  did  not  speak  ;  he  only  kissed  me, 
and,  drawing  my  head  down  on  his  shoulder,  laid  his 
cheek  upon  my  hair. 

I  was  quite  content,  however,  for  I  knew  that  Uncle 
Robert  never  broke  his  word. 

The  next  morning  I  was  up  betimes,  and  out  in  the 
woods,  gathering  the  brightest  of  evergreens  and  branches, 
to  deck  Bob's  cage  with  for  the  last  time. 

I  completely  walled  it  in,  and  thatched  it  with  hem 
lock,  to  keep  out  the  cold  wind,  and  crowned  it  with  a 
regal  crown  of  flaming  autumn  leaves.  Then  I  busied 
myself  preparing  a  bag  to  contain  seed,  filled  it,  labelled 
it,  and  sewed  it  up  carefully. 

So  the  hours  slipped  away ;  and  in  the  afternoon  my 
uncle,  after  listening  with  the  kindest  patience  to  a  thou- 
band-aml-one  directions  which  I  gave  him  for  Bob's  com- 


"ONE    SET    APART."  145 

fort  during  the  voyage,  bid  us  farewell;  and,  with  the 
cage  in  one  hand  and  his  portmanteau  in  the  other, 
turned  down  the  street  of  our  little  village. 

I  stood  at  the  door,  and  watched  him  till  he  was  out 
of  sight ;  and  then  my  heart  sank.  Oh,  it  was  hard  to 
part  with  Bob  !  I  loved  him  for  his  own  sake,  but  a  hun 
dred  times  more  for  Alfred's.  It  seemed  almost  as  if 
he  were  a  part  of  Freddy,  and  it  was  like  parting  with 
my  brother  over  again  to  lose  him. 

Perhaps  it  was  selfish,  but  I  was  not  a  little  angel  yet, 
like  Freddy ;  I  was  only  a  poor  little  girl,  and  just  then 
I  felt  very  sad  and  lonely.  So  I  ran  away  and  hid,  and 
threw  myself  on  my  face,  and  cried  passionately  and 
long. 

After  awhile,  though  the  sobs  came  slower,  and  my 
burning  eyes  grew  cool,  it  seemed  as  if  I  heard  the  dear 
voice,  saying,  "  Don't  cry,  Molly,  don't !  You  wouldn't, 
if  you  knew  how  happy  I  am  !"  and  I  was  comforted, 
and  fell  asleep,  and  God  let  Alfred  send  me  a  dream  as 
beautiful  as  Jacob's,  when  he  slept  with  his  head  upon 
the  stone.  So  that  when  I  awoke,  I  felt  not  only  quite 
calm  and  cheerful,  but  almost  as  happy  as  the  angels  of 
Heaven. 


"ONE  SET  APART." 

LITTLE  Josey  had  been  alone  a  long,  long  while.    lie 

had  broken  his  china  dogs,  pulled  the  fringe  off  from  the 

table-cover,  admired  the  variegated  birds  worked  on  the 

footstool,  until  he  turned  it  over — had  crawled  to  the 

10 


146  "  ONE   SET   APART." 

patch  of  sunlight  resting  on  the  roses  on  the  carpet,  and 
clutched  at  the  golden  rings,  and  played  with  his  trans 
parent  fingers.  Still  no  one  came.  He  fretted,  then 
looked  with  a  sudden,  quiet,  and  vague  expression  into 
the  fire,  magnetically  drawn  by  the  bright  coals  shining 
through  the  high  fender,  into  an  admiration  of  its  beau 
ties.  Then,  as  the  loneliness  of  his  situation  again  re 
called  itself  to  his  mind,  he  cried  again  softly,  and  with 
large  tears  running  down  his  plump  rosy  cheeks. 

Josey  was  cold,  hungry,  and  frightened — he  had 
never  been  alone  before ;  and  the  first  formed  word  his 
little  tongue  had  ever  uttered,  passed  moaningly  his 
pouting  lips — "  mamma  !"  "  mamma  !" 

Poor  little  Josey !  He  did  not  know  that  she  who 
would  have  caught  him  in  her  arms,  and  covered  him 
with  kisses  at  this  first  token  of  intellect,  could  no  longer 
hear  him ;  that  she  rested  on  her  stately  couch,  pale  as 
the  snow-drops  they  placed  beside  her,  with  her  hands 
calmly  folded  upon  her  meek  bosom,  and  a  deep  solemn 
sleep  settling  upon  her  sweet  young  face. 

He  did  not  know,  little  lone  orphan,  how  her  hand  had 
been  clasped  in  prayer,  and  that  when  her  soul  went  on 
that  long  journey,  it  carried  with  it  a  prayer  for  him  to 
the  throne  of  grace ;  that  the  thought  of  him  was  the 
only  cloud  upon  her  heart,  as  she  hastened  to  join  the 
beloved  one  who  had  gone  before. 

No.  Josey  knew  not  this.  He  cried  still  piteously, 
until  strangers  came  with  kind  words  and  sad  faces,  and 
carried  him  down  stairs.  As  he  passed  her  door,  he  in 
stinctively  murmured  the  new  word  "  mamma  !"  "  mam 
ma!"  until  they  hushed  him.  Then  bewildered,  fright- 


"ONE    SET   APART."  147 

ened,  and  weary,  he  cried,  and,  hiding  his  head  among 
the  pillows  of  the  familiar  cradle,  sobbed  himself  to 
sleep. 

Smiles  dimpled  his  flushed  face  in  that  sleep.  An 
angel  mother  held  him  in  her  arms,  soothed  his  trem 
bling  lips,  and  whispered  words  of  love  into  his  ear. 
Still  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  an  orphan.  Alas, 
poor  child,  he  learned  it  soon  enough  ! 

The  fine  house  was  sold,  and  all  its  elegancies.  Ex 
penses  were  paid,  and  the  small  sum  remaining  put  in 
trust  for  the  boy  into  the  hands  of  a  man  of  integrity. 
Josey  lived  in  his  family.  There  were  other  boys  and 
girls,  but  they  were  all  "to  the  manor  born."  Josey 
was  an  intruder. 

He  was  always  a  shy,  quiet  boy,  and  grew  still  more 
so  amid  this  childish  throng.  He  sought  out  dark  cor 
ners,  and  glided  into  them  unperceived.  lie  talked  to 
himself,  when  alone,  and  shared  no  joys  or  sorrows.  He 
was  unlike  other  children ;  they  had  mothers.  He  would 
watch  the  mother  as  she  impulsively  caught  to  her  heart 
some  little  prattler,  and  turn  away  sadly.  No  one  kissed 
Mm.  No  one  looked  with  pride  upon  his  copy-book.  No 
one  tied  his  tippet  about  his  neck  Avith  care.  No  one  stole 
on  tiptoe  at  night  to  his  bedside  to  see  if  he  were  com 
fortably  and  happily  sleeping.  No  one  saved  cakes  and 
candy  for  him  in  the  bureau-drawers,  or  stuffed  his  din 
ner-basket  with  a  favourite  morsel. 

No.  He  was  "  one  set  apart."  He  must  take  what 
comes,  and  be  thankful. 

Poor  little  Josey !  Even  the  teachers  knew  he  had  no 
mother,  and  neglected  him,  or  remembered  him  in  long 


148  "ONE  SET  APART." 

tasks,  so  hopelessly  hard  that  none  but  a  mother  could 
have  made  easy.  And  when  his  head  or  heart  ached, 
there  was  no  breast  to  bear  all  his  troubles ;  no  hand  to 
cool  the  fever  of  his  brow  with  its  gentle,  caressing 
touch.  Poor  Josey ! 

A  change  had  gradually  passed  over  Josey.  He  had 
grown  thin  and  pale ;  his  eyes  were  large  and  unnatu 
rally  bright ;  his  form  fragile  and  shadowy.  Friends 
whispered  when  he  passed,  and  boys  made  room  for  him 
by  the  winter  fire.  Little  girls  shared  their  dinners  with 
him.  Everybody  was  so  kind  that  he  could  never  do 
enough  for  them. 

One  day,  as  he  sate  by  the  fire  sad  and  dispirited,  the 
tears  would  roll  down  his  cheeks. 

"  Why  does  Josey  cry  ?"  said  a  little  child,  to  her 
mamma. 

"  The  poor  boy  has  no  mother,"  returned  the  parent. 

"Yes,"  cried  the  child,  with  eager  voice  and  manner, 
"  yes,  Josey  has  a  mamma ;  she  is  an  angel  in  Heaven." 

The  lady  took  the  child  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her, 
while  these  words  sank  deep  into  Josey's  heart. 

"I  have  a  mother,"  he  whispered  perpetually  to  him 
self;  "  I  will  find  her." 

The  sun  rose  proudly  up  one  bright  Christmas  morn 
ing,  and  shone  in  upon  Josey's  bed,  tinging  his  brown 
hair  with  gold,  and  calling  him  sluggard,  lighting  up 
temptingly  the  dark  corner  where  hung  the  full  stocking. 

Doors  opened  and  closed.  Merry  laughter  rang 
through  the  hall.  A  gay  throng  came  dancing  in. 


COUSIN    HETTIE    AND    HER    MOTIIEH-IN-LAW.  149 

"  Josej,  Josej,  I  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas  !" 

They  crowd  around  his  bed.  He  sleeps  so  deeply, 
and  lies  so  still.  His  face  is  white — although  the  thin 
lips  wear  a  smile.  They  shudder,  and  cry  loudly, 

"  Josey  is  dead  !" 

Yes,  Josey  has  found  his  mother,  and  the  angels  IB 
Heaven  are  singing  "  A  happy  Christmas  to  you, 
Josey !" 


COUSIN  HETTIE  AND  HER  MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

I  HAVE  just  been  writing  a  long,  long  letter  to  Cousin 
Hettie.  I  do  not  think  it  advisable  to  send  more  than 
three  closely-filled  sheets  at  once,  so  I  will  indulge  my 
present  mood  by  writing  of  her. 

Hettie  is  a  darling  creature — I  wish  I  might  be  as 
good  and  lovable.  She  is  not  beautiful — she  has  a  quiet, 
unobtrusive  face,  which  you  might,  and  probably  would, 
pass  unnoticed  at  first  sight ;  yet  she  has  such  a  sweet 
voice,  and  when  she  becomes  animated  in  conversation, 
her  face  is  so  full  of  expression  that  many  a  beauty 
might  envy  her  the  admiration  which,  all  unconsciously 
to  herself,  she  calls  forth. 

Left  an  orphan  at  an  early  age,  she  was  received  into 
my  father's  family,  and  we  considered  her  as  quite  one 
of  ourselves.  She  certainly  was  a  treasure  to  us,  so 
active,  so  cheerful,  so  ever  attentive  to  the  wishes  of 
those  around  her.  Sensitive  almost  to  a  fault,  she  stu 
died  her  own  quick  feelings  that  she  might  avoid  wound- 


150  COUSIN    HETTIE   AND   HER   MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

ing  those  of  others — but,  pardon  me,  I  did  not  intend 
10  write  of  Hettie  in  her  relation  to  us. 

Last  June,  on  her  eighteenth  birth-day,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Henry  Huntington,  whom  we  considered  fully 
worthy  of  her.  I  could  not  bestow  higher  praise.  lie 
wished  to  take  his  bride  to  his  parental  home,  imme 
diately  on  their  marriage,  but  she  desired  to  take  a  long 
tour  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  very  readily  yielded 
to  her  wishes,  though  I  think  he  would  not  have  done 
so,  had  he  known  that  it  was  not  so  much  a  wish  to  visit 

friends  in  C ,  which  made  her  so  anxious  to  go  there, 

as  a  dread  of  meeting  his  mother. 

Three  years  before,  with  a  heart  brimful  of  romantic 
feeling — as  what  maiden's  is  not  at  fifteen? — she  read 
Miss  Bremer's  Neighbours.  It  was  one  of  the  first  no 
vels  she  had  been  allowed  to  read,  and  every  character 
was  to  her  a  reality,  whose  personal  appearance  was 
almost  as  clearly  defined,  in  her  mind,  as  that  of  the 
friends  about  her.  Ma  cliere  mere,  with  her  overpower 
ing  dignity,  made  a  strong  impression  upon  her ;  she 
loved  to  think  of  her  and  imagine  how  nicely  she  could 
plan  to  get  behind  that  mantle  of  dignity — she  thought 
she  could  succeed  even  better  than  Franziska. 

When  she  learned  to  love  Mr.  Huntington,  she 
brought  his  mother  before  her  mental  vision  as  the  long- 
known  ma  cliere  mere.  He  is  a  tall,  noble-looking  man, 
with  a  naturally-dignified  bearing — she  looked  upon  him 
as  almost  a  being  of  a  higher  order,  and  had  many  a 
time  half  wondered  that  she  was  not  afraid  of  him. 
When  he  talked  to  her  of  his  mother,  she  found  little 
difficulty  in  receiving  everything  he  said,  as  only  a  part 


COUSIN    HETTIE    AND    HER    MOTHER-IN-LAW.  151 

of  the  description  of  the  ideal  she  had  known  so  long 
as  a  whole.  He  told  her  he  resembled  his  mother ;  that 
he  was  the  youngest  of  the  family,  having  a  niece  older 
than  himself.  Adding  years  only  added  dignity  to  this 
new  ma  chere  mere,  and  poor  Hettie  disliked  to  meet 
her  very  much — she  told  me  she  doubted  not  her  ulti 
mately  feeling  at  ease  in  the  dreaded  presence,  provided 
she  were  not  annihilated  by  the  first  glance.  When  her 
mother-in-law  should  find  what  a  useful  little  woman  she 
could  be,  she  was  sure  she  would  unbend  to  her ;  but  the 
first  meeting — the  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  she 
wished  to  delay  it.  It  seemed  very  natural  that  Henry 
should  love  his  mother  so  well,  without  any  of  the  undue 
reverence  she  felt,  because  she  thought  him  so  superior 
to  others.  She  knew  she  could  not  do  justice  to  herself 
should  she  make  her  first  appearance  among  her  new 
relatives  as  an  expected  bride — she  thought  she  could 
do  better  were  she  to  wait  till  she  could  form  a  slight 
acquaintance  by  corresponding. 

In  consequence  of  Hettie's  concealed  cogitations,  they 

went  to  C ,  where  she  introduced  her  husband  with 

no  more  pride  than  he  would  have  felt  in  presenting  her 
to  his  mother.  After  their  return,  Hettie  received  a 
brief  note  from  her  mother-in-law,  which  was  carefully 
worded,  for  old  Mrs.  Huntington  was  not  sure  of  the 
reception  her  epistle  might  meet  at  the  hands  of  her 
city-bred  daughter. 

In  early  October,  Mr.  Huntington  found  that  he  could 
leave  his  business  for  a  week  or  two,  and  he  gladly 
availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to  visit  his  friends. 
Hettie  saw  how  delighted  he  was  at  the  prospect,  and 


152  COUSIN    HETTIE   AND    HER    MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

she  tried  to  feel  as  elated  herself.  She  was  not  now 
anxious  to  delay  the  visit ;  because  she  wished  to  know 
arid  love  those  so  dear  to  her  husband.  She  examined 
her  wardrobe  most  critically  to  select  the  dresses  which 
would  be  most  suitable.  She  consulted  me  on  the  occa 
sion,  and  showed  her  opinion  of  my  advice  by  leaving 
every  dress  I  wished  her  to  take  at  home,  3xcept  her 
travelling-dress.  I  wished  her  to  dress  showily ;  she 
did  not  forget  that  there  would  be  little  opportunity  for 
display  in  country  farm-houses. 

Their  first  day's  ride  was  in  the  cars,  and  was  very 
like  other  days  spent  travelling  thus,  stupid  and  tire 
some.  The  next  morning  proved  unpleasant — it  did  not 
rain,  but  the  clouds  portended  it. 

Mr.  Huntington  said  they  would  remain  where  they 
were  that  day,  if  Hettie  wished,  but  she  saw  very  plainly 
that  the  nearer  he  was  to  his  early  home,  the  more  im 
patient  he  became  to  be  there  ;  and  she  urged  their  going 
on,  even  if  it  must  be,  as  he  assured  her,  in  an  awkward, 
uncovered  stage,  over  a  very  rough  road. 

Even  from  this  unpromising  day's  ride,  Hettie  extracts 
mirthful  recollections.  There  was  but  one  passenger  in 
the  stage  besides  themselves — he  was  a  clownish,  unre 
fined  fellow,  who  gave  her  new  ideas  of  humanity.  She 
was  listening,  with  amusement,  to  an  account  he  was 
giving  the  driver  of  a  visit  he  made  "his  woman,"  when 
she  was  a  "  gal,"  when  he  was  suddenly  interrupted  by 
Jehu's  leaving  his  side  most  unceremoniously.  The 
king-bolt  had  broken,  leaving  the  forward  wheels  totally 
unconnected  with  the  remainder  of  the  wa^on.  The 

O 

burly  driver  went  headlong  over  the  front  of  the  box, 


COUSIN    HETTIE   AND   HER    MOTHER-IN-LAW.  153 

hallooing  to  his  horses  to  stop ;  but  they  dragged  him 
on  to  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Hettie  looked  frightened  aa 
they  were  thus  left  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  till  she 
saw  the  driver  shaking  himself  at  the  side  of  his  quiet 
horses  —  then  she  laughed  heartily  at  the  ludicrous 
scene. 

The  rustic  was  so  efficient  a  helper  in  this  emergency, 
that  very  soon  all  was  made  safe  again,  and  they  tra 
velled  on.  He  did  not  finish  his  story,  as  probably  ho 
did  not  think  of  it  till  he  reached  his  home,  which  was 
near  the  place  of  the  accident. 

During  the  afternoon,  there  was  a  constant,  light, 
drizzling  rain,  not  rendering  it  necessary  to  keep  an 
umbrella  spread,  since  that  was  so  difficult  a  task  amid 
the  tumblings  of  their  clumsy  vehicle,  but  they  rode 
gayly  on  over  hills  which  Hettie  would  have  called 
mountains  had  they  been  anywhere  else.  She  thinks 
she  never  enjoyed  any  other  kisses  quite  so  well  as  those 
she  stole  when  the  driver  was  wholly  engaged  with  his 
horses,  going  down  those  long  hills — they  were  kisses 
accompanied  by  such  pleasant  shower-baths  from  Hen 
ry's  saturated  whiskers. 

When  the  stage  stopped  for  the  night,  both  were 
weary,  though  Henry  would  not  acknowledge  it. 

"  To-morroAv  night  we  shall  see  mother !"  he  exclaimed, 
as  he  entered  the  cosy  little  room  he  had  secured  for 
them.  Hettie  was  too  much  fatigued  then  to  tell  him 
how  much  she  dreaded  the  time. 

The  next  morning  the  weather  was  fair  and  the  coach 
fu'.l,  but  Henry  was  too  impatient  to  be  very  willing  to 
Btop  at  all  the  little  post-offices.  After  dinner  he  sue- 


154  COUSIN    HETTIE    AND    HER    MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

ceeded  in  obtaining  a  horse  and  carriage  for  the  remain 
der  of  their  journey.  The  roads  did  not  seem  so  rough 
then — Hettie  was  not  impatient  to  reach  her  destination  ; 
her  husband  sat  beside  her,  looking  so  noble,  so  good — 
he  talked  to  her  so  pleasantly  of  the  old  times,  when  he 
knew  the  occupants  of  every  house  they  should  pass  that 
afternoon,  he  seemed  so  much  more  boyish  himself  than 
he  had  ever  done  before,  that  she  thought  it  would  be 
very  pleasant  to  ride  thus  through  life. 

Just  at  sunset  they  were  passing  a  most  beautiful 
scene — the  road  was  a  little  ascending,  but  it  did  not 
Beem  a  common,  unromantic  road — there  was  a  grove  of 
beautiful  trees  on  each  side — the  ground  all  about  was 
thickly  strewn  with  the  bright-coloured  leaves,  and  there 
was  such  a  softened  light  over  all,  it  was  enchanting. 
They  stopped  as  Henry  said, 

"  This  was  our  half-way  spot  when  going  to  school : 
many  a  time  have  I  rested  with  my  brother  on  that  old 
rock." 

"Might  we  sit  there  together  now?"  whispered  Het- 
tie,  as  though  she  feared  a  loud  word  might  break  the 
enchantment ;  she  need  not  have  feared. 

Quietly  they  walked  to  the  old  rock — how  much  each 
lived  while  they  sat  there  !  Did  they  not  love  each 
other  better,  now  that  the  sweet  spot  was  so  bright  with 
associations  in  the  memory  of  each  ?  When  riding  again, 
Henry  talked  more  of  those  old  school-mates,  and  Hettie 
was  so  happy  to  listen. 

Darkness  began  to  steal  on  as  they  rode  up  to  a  largo 
farm-house,  and  Henry  exclaimed, 

"  This  is  home  !" 


COUSIN    HETTIE   AND   HER   MOTHER-IN-LAW.  155 

Ilettie's  heart  beat  almost  audibly,  she  thought.  The 
girl  who  answered  his  inquiries  said,  his  father  and 
mother  were  four  miles  further  on,  at  his  youngest 
sister's. 

"  More  riding,  that  is  all,"  said  Hettie,  and  was  quiet. 
Some  time  elapsed  before  a  manly  arm  stole  round  her, 
and  Henry  asked  what  she  was  thinking.  Then  she 
told  him  all  her  foolish  fancies — all  her  dread  of  meeting 
ma  cTiere  m£re — her  fear  that  she  should  not  behave 
quite  properly — her  wonder  whether  she  should  be  most 
like  Fanny,  Maria,  or  Ebbe.  Before  she  finished  the 
moon  rose,  and  as  she  looked  to  her  husband's  face,  sho 
saw  an  expression  of  mischief;  but  he  said  nothing. 

Very  soon  after,  they  rode  into  a  large  yard;  again 
Ilettie's  heart  beat — how  would  they  receive  their  un 
looked-for  guest  ?  Henry  exclaimed, 

"  Take  care  of  your  chickens,  or  I  will  run  over 
them  !" 

A  good-humoured  voice  instantly  replied,  "  You  have 
come^  have  you  !  We  killed  them  for  you." 

Then  Hettie  was  lifted  out,  she  hardly  knew  how,  and 
immediately  some  large,  soft  arms  were  round  her — a 
motherly  or  grandmotherly  face  was  looking  in  hers, 
and  saying, 

"  Tlds  is  our  Hettie,  is  it?" 

There  was  a  heartiness  in  this  first  greeting,  which 
made  Hettie  feel  perfectly  at  ease.  She  could  only 
wonder  that  she  had  ever  thought  of  this  good,  kind, 
motherly-looking  old  lady  as  like  ma  chdre  mere.  She 
was  ready  to  join  Henry  in  laughing  at  her  own  foolish 


156  COUSIN    IIETTIE    AND    HER    MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

little  self,  when  she  saw  that  same  mischievous  expres 
sion  in  his  face  a  few  moments  after. 

Supper  for  the  travellers  was  soon  upon  the  table,  not 
such  a  supper  as  Ilettie  had  been  accustomed  to — the 
table  was  loaded  with  substantial  viands.  For  an  in 
stant  she  thought,  Shall  I  ever  be  able  to  entertain  them 
like  this  at  our  home  ?  Then  she  forgot  all  care  for  the 
future  credit  of  her  housekeeping,  and  enjoyed  tho 
evening  very  much.  Was  it  wonderful  she  did,  with 
such  happy,  pleasant  companions  ?  There  was  her  hus 
band,  looking  so  satisfied,  so  proud,  and  appearing  so 
interested  in  everything  about  him.  His  father,  with 
his  honest  face  and  silvery  hair,  full  of  anecdotes,  which 
seldom  failed  to  raise  a  laugh.  His  mother,  seeming  so 
delighted  to  see  her  youngest  son  again  and  welcome 
his  little  wife,  whom  she  had  learned  to  love  from  his 
descriptions.  His  sister,  so  full  of  matronly  cares  that 
all  should  have  every  wish  promptly  gratified,  and  so 
glad  that  her  father  and  mother  had  happened  to  be 
there,  that  she  might  thus  secure  the  first  visit  from  her 
young  sister.  The  brother-in-law  evincing  sound  sense 
and  sturdy  good-humour.  The  children,  the  younger 
ones  very  shy,  yet  all  so  unaffectedly  glad  to  see  their 
uncle  and  his  pretty  wife.  Then  there  was  last,  but  not 
least,  if  we  should  judge  by  the  amount  of  attention 
Henry  bestowed  on  him,  old  Brock,  the  house-dog,  who 
had  frolicked  with  him  as  a  child,  and  now,  though  grown 
old  and  lazy,  knew  him  immediately. 

Hettie  was  hardly  conscious  of  any  effort  to  please 
her  new  relatives,  yet  it  required  no  very  deep  know- 


COUSIN    HETTIE    AND    HER    MOTHER-IN-LAW.  157 

ledge  of  human  nature,  to  see   that  all  were  as  much 
pleased  with  her  as  she  was  with  them. 

The  next  morning  she  went  over  the  orchard,  delight 
ing  her  companions,  the  old  gentleman  and  all  the 
youngsters,  by  the  zest  with  which  she  entered  into  the 
business  of  the  day — apple-picking. 

Soon  after  breakfast  all  started  for  the  old  homestead 
— Henry  was  as  impatient  to  be  there  as  his  parents 
were  to  have  him  under  their  own  roof.  Plow  much 
Hettie  enjoyed  the  week  they  remained  there  !  She 
helped  her  father  at  his  husking,  her  mother  in  the  pan 
try  ;  she  went  over  the  orchard  and  pastures  with  Henry, 
listening  while  he  told  her  the  flavours  of  the  apples 
before  tasting  them,  or  of  the  games  he  had  played  in 
this  corner,  the  berries  which  used  to  grow  in  that  field, 
and  of  his  boyhood's  companions,  memories  of  whom 
were  connnected  with  every  spot. 

Early  every  afternoon  the  wagons  were  at  the  door, 
that  the  old  couple  and  the  young  might  go  together  to 
visit  other  brothers  and  sisters,  or  old  neighbours. 
Everywhere  old  Mrs.  Huntington  preserved  that  pro 
tecting,  motherly  air,  so  grateful  to  Hettie  among 
strange  faces.  Everywhere  she  was  the  same  happy, 
lively  old  lady,  frequently  saying  such  comical  things 
with  so  demure  a  face,  that  Hettie  hardly  dared  laugh 
all  she  wished,  till  she  saw,  by  the  twinkling  eye,  that 
she  might  without  giving  offence.  Hettie  was  delighted 
with  everything,  she  was  as  a  pet  child  to  all  about  her 
— her  wishes  were  to  be  consulted  first,  lest  she  should 
be  home-sick.  Very  little  danger  of  that,  she  thought 
It  came  time  to  return  home  all  toe  soon.  She  left  her 


158  MUSINGS   AND    MEMORIES. 

relatives  with  hopes  that  she  should  see  them  at  her  own 
home  right  early,  promising  to  pass  a  month  with  her 
mother-in-law  next  summer. 

They  had  pleasant  weather  for  their  journey  home. 
The  next  morning  after  their  arrival  there,  Mr.  llunt- 
ington  hrought  me  the  following  brief  note : — 

"  DEAR,  EM. — With  no  very  deep  grief,  I  inform  you 
of  my  sudden  loss  of  an  ideal  mother-in-law.  If  you 
wish  to  learn  the  particulars,  I  advise  you  to  visit  very 
soon,  your  loving  cousin,  HETTIE. 


MUSINGS  AND  MEMORIES. 

I  AM  lonely,  I  am  weary, 

Would  you  know  the  reason  why? 
'Tis  not  that  the  day  is  dreary, 

Not  that  clouds  o'erhang  the  sky. 
No.     The  April  sun  is  beaming 

Warm  and  genial  as  'twere  May, 
Earth  and  air  in  beauty  teeming 

Woo  my  spirit  to  the  gay. 

This  new  home  is  very  cheerful, 

Husband,  children — all  are  here; 
Yet  my  eyes  are  sometimes  tearful, 

Tearful  for  old  memories  dear. 
By  my  window  I  am  sitting, 

Gazing  out  upon  the  street ; 
Thousands  to  and  fro  are  flitting, 

No  familiar  glance  I  meet. 


MUSINGS   AND   MEMORIES. 

Ah !  I  miss  the  birds  and  flowers 

Of  the  home  I've  left  behind — 
Miss  the  hill-tops  and  the  bowers, 

Miss  the  odour-wafting  wind. 
This  is  not  the  same  old  carpet 

Upon  which  we  danced  at  night, 
These  are  not  the  time-worn  curtain! 

Which  shut  out  the  summer  light. 

All  is  changed,  e'en  to  the  table 

Where  I  scribbled  rhymes  of  old, 
That  was  cherry,  this  is  marble — 

Ah  !  'tis  marble,  hard  and  cold. 
This  soft  seat  of  yielding  cushion, 

This  is  not  my  worn  old  chair 
Where  I  rocked  my  babes  to  slumbei 

Writh  a  mother's  patient  care. 

But  I  will  not  sigh  in  sadness, 

Will  not  let  my  heart  grow  cold, 
Soon   twill  throb  again  with  gladness, 

Soon  these  new  things  will  be  old. 
Kind  and  genial  hearts  are  hovering 

O'er  life's  pathway  everywhere  ; 
They  will  come  and  render  sacred 

Carpet,  curtain,  table,  chair. 

Flowers  of  love  will  spring  in  beautj 

To  my  fancy  on  the  street, 
If  the  dusty  paths  are  trodden 

Daily  by  familiar  feet. 
If  I  scatter  seeds  of  kindness, 

Here  and  there  as  best  I  may, 
Hoses,  fragrant  as  the  old  ones, 

Soon  will  cheer  the  lonely  way. 


160  FILIAL  PIETY. 

Home  so  loved — old  friends  so  treasureti- 
Half  my  heart  I'll  give  to  you  -, 

Half,  I'll  keep  in  good  condition, 
Warm  and  lighted  for  the  new. 

I  may  drop  a  tear  of  sorrow 
For  the  past — the  far  away, 

While  I'm  pilfering  from  to-morrow 
•  Smiles  and  sunshines  for  to-day. 


FILIAL   PIETY. 

[A  LADY  friend  says,  that  the  following,  frori  Mrs. 
Swisshelm's  "Letters  to  Country  Girls,"  ought  to  be 
handsomely  printed,  framed,  and  hung  up  in  the  chamber 
of  every  young  woman  in  the  land.] 

"What — another  lecture!"  Yes,  girls,  another  lec 
ture.  I  thought  long  ago  that  I  should  have  to  read  to 
you  a  long  one  about  minding  your  mothers.  Of  course 
you  all  know  the  divine  command,  "  Honour  thy  father 
and  thy  mother,"  but  very  few  obey  it.  An  undutiful 
child  is  an  odious  character,  yet  few  young  people  feel 
the  affection  for,  and  show  the  respect  and  obedience  to 
their  parents  that  are  becoming,  right,  and  beautiful. 
Did  you  ever  sit  and  think  about  the  anguish  your  mo 
ther  endured  to  give  you  being?  Did  you  ever  recount 
the  days  and  nights  of  care,  toil,  and  anxiety  you  cost 
her  ?  Did  you  ever  try  to  measure  the  love  that  sus 
tained  your  infancy  and  guided  your  youth  ?  Did  you 
ever  think  about  how  much  more  you  owe  your  mother 
than  you  will  be  able  to  pay  ?  If  so,  did  you  look  sour 


FILIAI    PIETY.  101 

and  cross  when  she  asked  you  to  do  anything — did  you 
ever  vex,  ever  disobey  her  ?  If  you  did,  it  is  a  sin  of 
no  common  magnitude,  and  a  shame  which  should  make 
youu  cheek  burn  every  time  you  think  of  it.  It  is  a  sin 
that  will  be  sure  to  bring  its  reward  in  this  world.  I 
never  knew  an  undutiful  daughter  make  a  happy  wife 
and  mother.  The  feeling  that  enables  any  one  to  be 
unkind  to  a  mother,  will  make  her  who  indulges  it 
wretched  for  life.  If  you  should  lose  your  mother,  you 
can  little  dream  how  the  memory  of  every  unkind  look, 
or  undutiful  word,  every  neglect  of  her  wishes,  will 
haunt  you.  I  could  never  tell  you  how  I  sometimes  feel 
in  remembering  instances  of  neglect  to  my  mother ;  and 
yet,  thanks  to  her  care,  I  had  the  name  of  being  a  good 
child.  She  told  me,  shortly  before  she  died,  that  I  had 
never  vexed  her  by  any  act  of  disobedience ;  and  I 
would  not  resign  the  memory  of  her  approbation  for  the 
plaudits  of  a  world,  even  though  I  knew  it  was  her  love 
that  hid  the  faults  and  magnified  all  that  was  good.  I 
know  how  many  things  I  might  have  done  to  add  to  her 
happiness  and  repay  her  care  that  I  did  not  do ;  but  the 
grave  has  cut  off  all  opportunities  of  rectifying  mistakes 
or  atoning  for  neglects.  Never,  never  lay  past  for  your 
self  the  memory  of  an  unkindness  to  or  neglect  of  your 
mother.  If  she  is  sick,  how  can  you  possibly  get  tired 
waiting  upon  her  ?  How  can  you  trust  any  one  else  to 
take  your  place  about  her  ?  No  one  could  have  filled 
her  place  to  your  peevish  infancy  and  troublesome  child 
hood.  When  she  is  in  her  usual  health,  remember  she 
in  not  so  young  and  active  as  you  are.  Wait  upon  her. 
If  she  wants  her  knitting,  bring  it  to  her,  not  because 
11 


162  FILIAL   PIETY. 

she  could  not  get  it  herself,  but  to  show  that  you  are 
thinking  about  her,  and  love  to  do  something  for  her. 
Learn  to  comb  her  hair  for  her  sometimes.  It  will  make 
you  love  to  be  near  her.  Bring  her  a  drink,  fix  her  cap, 
pin  on  her  'kerchief,  bring  her  shoes,  get  her  gloves,  or  do 
some  other  little  thing  for  her.  No  matter  how  active 
and  healthy  she  may  be,  or  how  much  she  may  love  to 
•work,  she  will  love  to  have  you  do  any  little  thing  that 
•will  show  you  arj  thinking  of  her.  How  I  should  love 
now  to  get  dov;n  on  the  floor  and  put  the  stockings  and 
shoes  on  mother's  dear,  fat,  white  feet,  or  to  stand  half 
an  hour  combing  and  toying  with  her  soft,  brown  hair  ! 
Girls,  you  do  not  know  the  value  of  your  mother,  if  you 
have  not  lost  her.  Nobody  loves  you,  nobody  ever  will 
love  you  as  she  does.  Do  not  be  ungrateful  for  that 
love,  do  not  repay  it  with  coldness,  or  a  curse  of  cold 
ness  will  rest  upon  you,  which  you  can  never  shake  off. 
Unloved  and  unloving  you  will  live  and  die,  if  you  do 
not  love  and  honour  your  father  and  mother. 

One  thing:  never  call  either  "old  man"  or  "old 
woman."  It  is  quite  a  habit  in  the  country  for  young 
people  to  name  their  parents  thus.  This  is  rude,  impu 
dent,  and  undutiful.  Any  aged  person  is  an  old  man  or 
an  old  woman.  There  should  be  something  sacred, 
something  peculiar  in  the  word  that  designates  parents. 
The  tone  of  voice  in  which  they  are  addressed  should 
bo  affectionate  and  respectful.  A  short,  surly  answer 
from  a  child  to  a  parent  falls  very  harshly  on  the  ear  of 
any  person  who  has  any  idea  of  filial  duty.  B^  sure, 
girls,  that  you  each  win  for  yourselves  the  name  of  a 
dutiful  daughter.  It  is  so  easy  to  win,  that  no  one 


FILIAL   PIETY.  163 

should  be  without  it.  It  is  much  easier  to  he  a  good 
daughter  than  a  good  wife  or  mother.  There  are  no 
conflicting  interests  between  parent  and  child  as  between 
husband  and  wife.  A  child's  duties  are  much  more 
easily  performed  than  a  parent's ;  so  that  she  who  is  a 
good  daughter  may  fail  to  be  a  good  wife  or  mother ; 
but  she  who  fails  in  this  first  most  simple  relation,  need 
never  hope  to  fill  another  well.  Be  sure,  then,  that  you 
are  a  good  daughter.  It  is  the  best  preparation  for 
every  other  station,  and  will  be  its  own  reward.  The 
secret  you  dare  not  tell  your  mother  is  a  dangerous 
secret ;  and  one  that  will  be  likely  to  bring  you  sorrow. 
The  hours  you  spend  with  her  will  not  bring  you  regret, 
and  you  should  never  feel  disappointed  or  out  of  humour 
for  not  being  permitted  to  go  to  some  place  to  which  you 
wished  to  go.  You  should  love  her  so  well  that  it  would 
not  be  felt  a  punishment  to  give  up  the  gayest  party  to 
remain  with  her.  Nothing  is  more  beautiful  than  to  see 
a  girl  take  off  her  things  and  sit  smilingly  down  with 
mother  because  she  wishes  it.  But  this  letter  is  growing 
long,  and  my  thoughts  have  wandered ;  so  good-night. 
Go  and  kiss  mother  as  you  used  to  do  when  a  child,  and 
never  grow  too  large  or  wise  to  be  a  child  at  her  side. 


GODFATHER  VIVIAN. 

IT  was  early  in  a  July  afternoon  when  the  corriaga 
Bet  me  down  at  Peek  wood,  whither  I  had  gone  to  spend 
the  holidays.  I  walked  quickly  up  the  old  lane  of  roses 
and  sweetbriar,  thinking  all  the  way  of  Jenny  and  Ro 
bert,  and  of  the  delightful  days  we  should  pass  together. 
It  was  such  a  long  time  since  we  had  parted  last — or,  at 
least,  it  seemed  so.  I  was  somewhat  disappointed  when, 
instead  of  Jenny's  pretty,  laughing  face  appearing  at 
the  door,  I  beheld  the  two  prim  forms  of  her  step-aunts. 

Miss  Lucretia  and  Miss  Penelope  welcomed  me,  but 
not  cordially — that  they  never  did. 

"Where's  Jenny?"  said  I,  giving  a  half-pressure  to 
the  cold  fingers  which  received  me. 

"Jenny  is  with  Robert,  at  present,"  replied  Miss 
Lucretia,  stiffly. 

"  And  Robert  is  in  disgrace,"  subjoined  Miss  Pene 
lope,  austerely. 

A  cloud,  dark  and  lowering,  overshadowed  the  pro 
mised  sunshine  of  the  delightful  holidays.  I  stood  irre 
solute — half  wishing,  half  fearing  to  ask  if  I  might  go 
to  them.  Miss  Lucretia  anticipated  me. 

"  You  will  find  your  companions  in  the  south  room. 
I  will  send  up  your  trunk  immediately." 

I  scarcely  waited  to  hear  the  second  announcement. 
I  was  already  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Up  I  flew,  two 
steps  at  a  time,  all  red,  and  dusty,  and  full  of  love.  I 
found  them  together  in  the  soutli  room.  Robert,  sitting 


GODFATHER   VIVIAN.  165 

silently  by  the  window,  and  Jenny,  npon  her  knees 
beside  him.  Oh  !  what  a  glad  shout  he  gave  when  he 
saw  me,  and  how  Jenny  cried  and  laughed  alternately ! 
For  a  time,  disgrace  was  forgotten,  and  it  seemed  just 
as  if  old  times  on  the  sea-beach  had  returned  again. 
But  gradually  the  settled  sorrow  stole  back  over  Robert's 
face. 

"  What  is  it  all  about?"  asked  I,  as  we  three  sat  toge 
ther;  and  they  told  me  from  beginning  to  end.  In  a 
moment  of  great  temptation,  Robert  had  taken  that 
which  was  not  his  own.  He  had  stolen — he  was  a  thief! 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  world  of  anguish  that  passed 
over  his  countenance  as  he  said  these  words — such  a 
bitter,  regretful  anguish. 

"  And  have  you  told  all  the  circumstances  to  your 
aunts?''  I  again  inquired. 

"No,"  replied  Robert,  proudly;  "they  would  neither 
understand  nor  believe  me  if  I  did." 

"  Perhaps  they  might  forgive  you." 

"  Never  !     They  have  sent  up  this  morning  for  god 
father  Vivian.     I  don't  know  what  will  be  done  with  me." 

I  had  heard  of  godfather  Vivian  before,  but  none  of 
us  three  had  ever  seen  him.  He  had  lived  abroad  until 
during  the  last  year,  and,  though  he  had  sometimes 
made  short  visits  to  Peekwood,  it  always  happened  that 
he  came  when  Jenny  and  Robert  were  absent  from  home. 
This  announcement  of  his  coming  silenced  us  momenta 
rily.  We  were  all  thinking  of  him. 

"I  know,"  said  Robert,  mournfully,  after  a  pause, 
"I  know  that  he  is  hard-hearted  and  unfeeling,  or  else 


1 06  GODFATHER   VIVIAN. 

they  never  would  have  sent  for  him.  I  expect  to  have 
no  mercy  shown  me." 

"  I  am  afraid  you're  right,  Robert,"  said  I,  sadly,  and 
with  tears  in  my  eyes. 

"I  can  foresee  everything,"  exclaimed  Jenny,  pas 
sionately,  while  she  held  her  brother's  hand.  "  I  can 
83e  him  before  me  just  as  if  I  had  known  him  all  my 
life.  Tall,  grim,  hard,  unfeeling,  stern,  implacable,  and 
unforgiving.  That's  godfather  Vivian." 

It  was  a  faithful  picture  to  us,  and  we  took  it  home. 
We  decided  that  he  was  a  very  ogre,  and  that  Robert 
was  to  prepare  for  the  worst  and  most  speedy  of  pun 
ishments. 

Two  hours  passed  away.  We  sat  sorrowful  and  with 
out  hope.  Suddenly,  Jenny,  who  had  been  watching 
the  window  intently,  sprang  back,  clasping  her  hands, 
and  crying  out, 

"He's  coming!  he's  coming!  The  carriage  is  just 
coming  up  the  avenue.  Oh  !  Robert !  Robert !" 

She  threw  herself  upon  the  floor,  and  hid  her  face 
upon  Robert's  knee. 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair,  his  brave  handsome  face 
looking  white  and  ghostly,  with  the  black  curls  clinging 
around  it.  I  gained  the  window,  and  looked  hastily  out. 
A  plain,  brown  travelling  carriage  was  winding  slowly 
up  to  the  portico.  Yes ;  godfather  Vivian  had  come. 
Poor  Robert !  it  was  all  over  with  him. 

Minutes  passed  away — they  seemed  hours  to  us — and 
then  there  was  a  noise  at  our  chamber  door.  It  opened, 
and  admitted  the  two  step-aunts — Miss  Lucretia  and  Misa 
Penelope.  They  looked  rigid,  austere,  and  boding  il.".. 


GODFATHER   VIVIAN.  167 

They  beckoned  solemnly  to  Robert.  He  arose,  and 
walked  between  them.  There  was  no  fear  expressed  in 
his  face,  but  he  looked  worn  and  wretched.  Jenny  and 
I  followed  ;  and  thus,  in  awful  state,  we  proceeded  k> 
the  tribunal. 

The  door  of  the  old  library  stood  open,  as  if  awaiting 
our  entrance.  As  we  passed  in,  Robert's  head  sank 
lower  upon  his  breast,  while  Jenny  and  I  walked  with 
downcast  eyes.  We  felt  that  we  were  in  the  dreaded 
presence,  and  we  did  not  wish  to  behold  it. 

There  was  a  breathless  pause.  Then  a  round,  mellow, 
beautiful  voice,  full  of  sweetness,  broke  the  siler.ee. 

"  How's  this  ?     Robert,  my  boy,  what's  the  matter  ?" 

I  thought  that,  all  at  once,  a  tide  of  blossoms,  and 
fragrance,  and  sunshine,  had  burst  into  the  grim  old 
library.  Robert  lifted  his  head  and  downcast  eyes.  So 
did  Jenny,  and  so  did  I.  In  the  centre  of  the  apart 
ment,  on  the  old-fashioned  hair  lounge,  sat  godfather 
Vivian.  No  tall,  grim,  unfeeling  guardian.  No  stern, 
implacable,  unforgiving  ogre.  But  a  hale,  healthy  per 
sonage,  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  beautiful,  benign 
countenance,  and  tender,  peaceful,  blue  eyes. 

A  single  streak  of  sunlight,  which  was  playing  on  the 
wall,  glanced  now  and  then  across  his  grayish-brown 
hair,  and  white,  unwrinkled  brow. 

Robert  stood  before  him,  his  hair  tossed  aside  from 
his  face,  which  now  wore  a  reassured,  grateful  look. 
The  step-aunts  seated  themselves,  upright  and  gloomy, 
one  on  either  side. 

"  Mr.  Vivian,"  said  Miss  Lucretia,  by  way  of  preface, 
"a  circumstance  like  this  has  never  happened  in  my 


168  GODFATHER    VIVIAN. 

family.  I  consider  my  sister's  memory  disgraced  by 
this  unpardonable  action  which  her  stepson  has  com 
mitted." 

"Mr.  Vivian,"  concluded  Miss  Penelope,  "a  March' 
niont  never  would  have  perpetrated  an  act  so  unworthy 
of  his  ancestors." 

"  Go  on,  Robert,"  said  the  mellow  voice,  mildly. 
"  Tell  me  all — tell  everything." 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on,"  repeated  Miss  Lucretia,  with  acri 
mony.  "Be  explicit,  and  don't  lie." 

Robert's  face  flushed,  his  dark  eyes  glanced  passion 
ately,  and  he  bit  his  lips  as  if  to  suppress  his  just  anger. 
Then  he  became  subdued  again  and  sorrowful. 

"  Godfather  Vivian,"  he  began,  but  broke  down  at 
these  words.  Then  he  rallied,  and  went  on,  remorse 
fully,  but  bravely. 

"  For  sometime  past,  in  going  to  my  place  of  employ, 
I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  dropping  in  to  visit  a  poor 
family,  who  live  in  that  vicinity.  The  family  consist 
of  a  drunken  father,  a  mother,  and  a  crippled  child. 
While  I  had  a  little  money  to  spare,  besides  what  I 
invested,  and  what  I  spent  in  pastime,  I  gave  it  to  the 
poor  woman  for  the  sake  of  her  child. 

"  For  a  week  past,  the  child  has  lain  very  ill — almost 
at  the  point  of  death.  During  her  sufferings,  her  con 
stant  desire  has  been  for  fruit — for  oranges,  which  deli 
cacy  her  mother  was  unable  to  buy  with  her  scanty 
means.  Yesterday,  while  I  stood  at  the  bedside,  her 
pleadings  were  heart-rending,  and  I  almost  cried  because 
I  could  not  give  them  to  her.  I  had  spent  foolishly  the 


GODFATHER    VIVIAN.  109 

little  pocket-money  I  had,  and  there  was  no  more  to  ba 
procured  until  the  next  month. 

"All  the  way  to  my  employer's  I  thought  about  it, 
and  half  the  day  it  haunted  me.  In  the  afternoon  1 
entered  the  counting-room  for  some  article.  The  apart 
ment  was  empty,  no  one  was  near,  and  upon  the  desk 
lay  a  few  bright  silver  pieces.  Temptation  was  before 
me.  I  thought  of  the  sick-bed  of  the  little  child,  with 
its  parched  lips  and  piteous  cry.  I  forgot  what  I  had 
come  for,  and  yet  lingered  in  the  room.  If  I  took  the 
money,  I  could  easily  replace  it  again.  Only  one  month, 
and  then  I  would  replace  it  all,  perhaps  more  than  I 
took.  Then  something  whispered  to  me,  '  Oh  !  Robert, 
don't  steal,'  and  I  started  at  my  own  thoughts.  I  tried 
to  say  my  prayers,  but  I  had  forgotten  them.  I  glanced 
involuntarily  at  the  money,  and  said  '  Our  Father,'  but 
it  wouldn't  do." 

Here  Robert  broke  down  again,  and  covered  his  faco 
with  his  hands.  Somebody  sobbed.  It  wasn't  Robert, 
nor  Miss  Lucretia,  nor  her  sister.  It  wasn't  Jenny, 
either,  although  she  was  weeping  silently.  It  was  god 
father  Vivian.  His  face  was  covered  with  his  white 
handkerchief,  and  his  breast  heaved  with  emotion. 

Robert  continued,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"  I  left  the  counting-room,  not  as  I  had  entered  it  a 
few  moments  before.  There  was  a  great  Aveight  on  my 
heart,  and  I  felt  no  longer  fearless  and  honest,  but 
trembled  at  a  sound.  I  hurried  away  from  thought, 
and  the  place  of  my  temptation.  I  bought  the  oranges, 
and  carried  them  to  the  sick-bedside.  The  mother  gave 
me  a  blessing,  but  it  sounded  more  like  a  curse.  I  never, 


170  GODFATHER    VIVIAN. 

never  could  be  upright  and  honest  again  :  I  wa3  so  sunk 
in  my  own  esteem.  Oh!  sir,  I  have  suffered  just  here," 
placing  his  hand  upon  his  breast,  "  more  than  words  can 
tell.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  passed  through  years  of  pun 
ishment  and  horror.  The  money  has  been  replaced  by 
my  aunts,  and  Heaven  knows  my  torture  has  been 
8<jvere." 

Robert  ceased  speaking,  and  stood  with  bowed  head, 
the  perfect  picture  of  youthful  despair.  He  asked  for 
no  clemency,  and  he  need  not  have  asked  for  it. 

Godfather  Vivian  removed  the  handkerchief  from  his 
face. 

"  Mr.  Vivian,"  said  Miss  Lucretia,  leaning  forward, 
"he  deserves  all  and  everything.  Let  him  not  escape." 

"Mr.  Vivian,  be  severe,"  said  Miss  Penelope,  eyeing 
him  closely. 

Godfather  Vivian  arose  from  his  seat,  calmly  and  with 
mild  dignity.  He  spoke  clearly  and  distinctly — 

"Judge  not,  lest  ye  be  judged  also." 

The  step-aunts  exchanged  glances.  He  continued. 
He  spoke  eloquently  and  long.  He  made  an  appeal  to 
the  stony  hearts  before  him,  and  they  melted  at  his 
touch.  lie  asked  them  if  for  one  offence  he  should 
crush  for  ever  the  hopes  and  springtime  of  youth.  If 
lie  should  trample  upon  repentance,  and  toss  lightly 
away  a  soul,  noble  and  brave,  but  erring. 

There  was  pathos  in  his  tones — a  great  depth  and 
tenderness.  Oh  !  how  great  and  good  he  looked,  stand 
ing  there,  with  love  and  pity  and  tears  in  his  eyes  !  Ho 
finished  his  appeal — he  turned — he  held  out  his  arms. 

"  Robert,   my  boy,   cheer  up  !     There's  a  long   lift 


THE    STORY   OF   THE   BROKEN   FLOWER-POT.  171 

before  you.  Be  honest,  be  strong,  be  hopeful.  Never 
despair,  and  never  throw  away  life  because  of  a  single 
false  step." 

Miss  Lucretia  and  Miss  Penelope  sat  with  downcast 
eyes,  struggling  to  regain  their  ancient  pride.  I  buried 
my  head  in  the  window-curtain,  and  cried  heartily. 

When  I  looked  up,  Robert  was  in  godfather  Vivian's 
arms,  and  sobbing  upon  his  brave,  broad  breast.  Jenny 
was  there,  too,  with  her  hands  clasped  about  his  neck, 
and  her  bright  hair  waving  down  around  him. 

And  the  tide  of  blossoms,  and  fragrance,  and  sun 
shine  kept  swelling  arid  gliding  into  the  grim  library, 
keeping  pace  with  the  round,  murmuring,  mellow  voice. 
Noble,  generous,  brave-hearted  godfather  Vivian  ! 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BROKEN  FLOWER-POT. 

[PISISTRATUS,  the  young  hero,  pushed  his  mother's 
favourite  flower-pot  out  of  the  window,  in  mischief,  and 
told  the  truth  about  it.]  From  that  time  I  first  date 
the  hour  when  I  felt  that  I  loved  my  father,  and  knew 
that  he  loved  me ;  from  that  time,  too,  he  began  to  con 
verse  with  me.  He  would  no  longer,  if  he  met  me  in 
the  garden,  pass  by  with  a  smile  and  nod ;  he  would 
stop,  put  his  book  in  his  pocket,  and  though  his  talk  was 
often  above  my  comprehension,  still,  somehow,  I  felt 
happier  and  better,  and  less  of  an  infant,  when  I  thought 
over  it,  and  tried  to  puzzle  out  the  meaning  ;  for  he  had 


172  THE   STORY   OF   THE   BROKEN   FLOWE-R  POT 

a  way  of  suggesting,  not  teaching ;  putting  things  into 
my  head,  and  then  leaving  them  to  work  out  their  own 
problems.  Not  long  after  this,  Mr.  Squills  made  me  a 
present  far  exceeding  in  value  those  usually  bestowed 
on  children;  it  was  a  beautiful,  large  domino-box  in  cut 
ivory,  painted  and  gilt.  This  domino-box  was  my  de 
light.  I  was  never  weary  of  playing  at  dominoes  with 
Mrs.  Primmins,  and  I  slept  with  the  box  under  my 
pillow. 

"Ah,"  said  my  father,  one  day,  when  he  found  me 
ranging  the  ivory  parallelograms  in  the  parlour,  "ah, 
you  like  that  better  than  all  your  playthings,  eh?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  papa." 

"  You  would  be  very  sorry  if  your  mamma  was  to 
throw  that  box  out  of  the  window  and  break  it,  for 
fun  ?" 

I  looked  beseechingly  at  my  father,  and  made  no 
answer. 

"  But,  perhaps,  you  would  be  very  glad,"  he  resumed, 
"  if,  suddenly,  one  of  those  good  fairies  you  read  of 
could  change  the  domino-box  into  a  beautiful  geranium, 
in  a  beautiful  blue-and-white  flower-pot,  and  that  you 
could  have  all  the  pleasure  of  putting  it  on  your  mum- 
ma's  window-sill?" 

"Indeed  I  would  !"  said  I,  half  crying. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  believe  you  ;  but  good  wishes  don't 
mend  bad  actions;  good  actions  mend  bad  actions." 

So  saying,  he  shut  the  door,  and  went  out.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  puzzled  I  was  to  make  out  what  my  father 
meant  by  his  aphorism ;  but  I  know  that  I  played  at 
dominoes  no  more  that  day.  The  next  morning,  m^ 


THE    STORY   OF   THE   BROKEN    FLOWCR-POT.  173 

father  found  me  seated  by  myself  under  a  tree  in  the 
garden ;  he  paused,  and  looked  at  me  with  his  grave, 
bright  eves,  very  steadily. 

"My  boy,"  said  he,  "I  am  going  to  walk  to (a 

t.mn  about  two  miles  off),  will  you  come  ?  and,  by-the- 
bye,  fetch  your  domino-box;  I  should  like  to  show  it  to 
a  person  there." 

I  ran  in  for  the  box,  and,  not  a  little  proud  of  walking 
with  my  father  upon  the  high-road,  we  set  out. 

"Papa,"  said  I,  by  the  way,  "there  are  no  fairies, 
now." 

"What  then,  my  child?" 

"  Why,  how  then  can  my  domino-box  be  changed  into 
a  geranium  and  a  blue-and-white  flower-pot  ?" 

"  My  dear,"  said  my  father,  leaning  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  "  everybody,  who  is  in  earnest  to  be  good, 
carries  two  fairies  about  with  him ;  one  here,"  and  he 
touched  my  heart,  "and  one  here,"  and  he  touched  my 
forehead. 

"I  don't  understand,  papa." 

"  I  can  wait  till  you  do,  Pisistratus.    What  a  name  !" 

My  father  stopped  at  a  nursery-gardener's,  and,  after 
looking  over  the  flowers,  paused  before  a  large  double 
geranium. 

"Ah,  this  is  finer  than  that  which  your  mamma  was 
BO  fond  of.  What  is  the  cost,  sir?" 

"  Only  Is,  6d.,"  said  the  gardener. 

My  father  buttoned  up  his  pocket.  "  I  can't  afford 
it  to-day,"  said  he,  gently,  and  we  walked  out.  On 
entering  the  town,  we  stopped  again,  at  a  china  ware 
house. 


174  THE   STORY   OF   THE   BROKEN    FLOWER-POT. 

'*  Have  you  a  flower-pot  like  that  I  bought  some 
months  ago  ?  Ah,  here  is  one  marked  3s.  Qd.  Yes, 
that  is  the  price.  Well,  when  your  mamma's  birth-day 
comes  again,  we  must  buy  her  another.  That  is  some 
months  to  wait.  And  we  can  wait,  Master  Sisty.  For 
truth,  that  blooms  all  the  year  round,  is  better  than  a 
poor  geranium ;  and  a  word  that  is  never  broken  is  bet 
ter  than  a  piece  of  delf." 

My  head,  which  had  drooped  before,  rose  again,  but 
the  rush  of  joy  at  my  heart  almost  stifled  me. 

"  I  have  called  to  pay  your  little  bill,"  said  my  father, 
entering  the  shop  of  one  of  those  fancy  stationers,  com 
mon  in  country  towns,  and  who  sell  all  kinds  of  pretty 
toys  and  nicknacks ;  "  and,  by  the  way,"  he  added,  as 
the  smiling  shopman  looked  over  his  books  for  the  entry, 
"  I  think  my  little  boy,  here,  can  show  you  a  much 
handsomer  specimen  of  French  workmanship  than  that 
work-box  which  you  enticed  Mrs.  Caxton  into  raffling 
for,  last  winter.  Show  your  domino-box,  my  dear." 

I  produced  my  treasure,  and  the  shopman  was  liberal 
in  his  commendations. 

"  It  is  always  well,  my  boy,  to  know  what  a  thing  is 
worth,  in  case  one  wishes  to  part  with  it.  If  my  young 
gentleman  gets  tired  of  his  plaything,  what  will  you  give 
him  for  it?" 

"Why,  sir,"  said  the  shopman,  "I  fear  we  could  not 
afford  to  give  more  than  eighteen  shillings  for  it,  unless 
the  young  gentleman  took  some  of  these  pretty  thinga 
in  exchange." 

"Eighteen  shillings!"  said  my  father.     "You  would 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   BROKEN    FLOWER-POT.  175 

give  that  ?     Well,  my  boy,  whenever  you  do  grow  tired 
of  your  box,  you  have  ray  leave  to  sell  it." 

My  father  paid  his  bill,  and  went  out.  I  lingered  be 
hind,  a  few  moments,  and  joined  him  at  the  end  of  the 
street. 

*'  Papa  !  papa  !"  I  cried,  clapping  my  hands,  "  we  fin 
buy  the  geranium — we  can  buy  the  flower-pot ;"  ana  I 
pulled  a  handful  of  silver  from  my  pockets. 

"  Did  I  not  say  right?"  said  my  father,  passing  his 
handkerchief  over  his  eyes  ;  "  you  have  found  the  two 
fairies  !" 

Oh,  how  proud,  how  overjoyed  I  was,  when,  after 
placing  vase  and  flower  on  the  window-sill,  I  plucked  my 
mother  by  the  gown,  and  made  her  follow  me  to  the 
spot. 

"  It  is  his  doing  and  his  money !"  said  my  father ; 
"good  actions  have  mended  the  bad." 

"What !"  cried  my  mother,  when  she  had  learned  all, 
"  and  your  poor  domino-box  that  you  were  so  fond  of ! 
We  will  go  back,  to-morrow,  and  buy  it  back,  if  it  costs 
us  double." 

"  Shall  we  buy  it  back,  Pisistratus  ?"  asked  my  father. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  it  would  spoil  all !"  I  cried,  burying 
my  face  on  my  father's  breast. 

"  My  wife,"  said  my  father,  solemnly,  "this  is  my 
first  lesson  to  our  child,  the  sanctity  and  the  happiness 
of  self-sacrifice ;  undo  not  what  it  should  teach  to  hia 
dying  day." 

And  this  is  the  history  of  the  broken  flower-pot. 


IS  WORK  DEGRADING? 

MAY  I  claim  your  attention  again,  young  friends,  tc 
a  subject  which  is  often  very  erroneously  considered  by 
persons  of  your  age  ?  I  have  referred  to  it  in  my  letters 
and  little  sketches ;  it  is  based  on  the  golden  rule  of 
"  Do  as  you  would  be  done  by,"  and  it  is  for  the  consi 
deration  of  the  girl  in  the  embroidered  muslin  as  much 
as  for  her  in  the  calico  dress  and  check  apron. 

Is  service  degrading  ?  By  service  is  meant  any  kind 
of  aid  or  assistance  which  can  be  rendered  to  those 
around  us.  Is  it  vulgar  to  be  usefully  employed  ?  Is 
it  menial  to  take  care  of  your  own  room,  to  aid  in  keep 
ing  the  house  neat,  even  to  go  into  the  kitchen  to  cook, 
if  necessary,  or  to  iron,  or  to  clear-starch  your  own  mus 
lins,  when  you  get  old  enough  for  such  things?  I  think 
not.  /  call  the  pride  Avhich  disdains  such  things  vulgar, 
and  the  indolence  which  fears  the  effort  contemptible. 

I  do  not  think  it  of  much  advantage  to  the  intellect 
to  engage  in  such  occupations,  but  it  is  a  healthful  recre 
ation  after  study ;  it  has  its  own  beneficial  effect  in  con 
quering  self-indulgence,  and  in  exercising  the  faculties 
of  observation  and  judgment.  It  makes  people  consi 
derate,  thoughtful,  careful,  which  are  womanly  attributes; 
it  encourages  neatness  and  order,  which  are  lady-like. 
It  promotes  good-will  and  kindly  feelings,  and  answers 
and  strengthens  loving  impulses.  It  is  a  moral  and 
physical  influence  for  good. 

I  have  a  friend,  who  has  not  the  means  of  hiring  a 


IS   WORK   DEGRADING?  177 

servant ;  she  does  everything  for  her  household  that  can 
contribute  to  their  health,  or  comfort,  or  happiness.  Her 
house  is  neat,  her  table  well  supplied,  her  children  pro 
perly  cared  for;  and  when  evening  comes,  and  she  sits 
by  her  little  work-table,  repairing  the  wardrobes  of  the 
family,  while  her  husband  reads  aloud  to  her  some  well- 
written  book,  I  will  dare'  say  her  appreciation  of  it  is 
equal  to  that  of  the  most  refined  and  elegant  lady  you 
can  name.  Indeed,  the  healthy  tone  of  her  mind,  its 
strong,  clear  sense,  its  quickness  and  freshness,  lend  a 
zest  to  the  pleasure  which  I  fear  the  languid  lady  can 
never  know. 

When  such  service  is  not  needed,  it  is  no  sin  not  to 
give  it.  But  the  less  you  do  for  others  or  yourself,  the 
less  you  are  inclined  to  do.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  ask 
a  servant  for  a  glass  of  water,  or  to  get  you  a  book  ;  it 
is  so  much  easier,  ay,  and  more  lady-like,  you  think,  I 
know,  to  ring  a  bell  for  a  servant  to  bring  your  guest 
refreshments,  or  to  assist  her  in  removing  her  things. 
"  It  is  a  servant's  place  to  do  such  things ;  it  is  ungrace 
ful,  and/ussy,  and  vulgar  to  do  them  yourself,"  you  say. 
/think  the  most  graceful  thing  in  the  world  is  the  yield 
ing  of  such  service  to  one  you  love  or  respect.  /  think 
the  lady  who  degrades  herself  by  such  service  has  a  very 
thin  covering  of  ladyhood  over  an  innately  vulgar  na 
ture.  She  is  afraid  to  stoop,  lest  this  vulgarity  be  ex 
posed.  If  she  is  too  much  of  a  lady  to  take  care  of  her 
own  room,  if  necessary,  she  is  sufficiently  vulgar  to  be 
Willing  to  be  surrounded  by  slovenliness. 

*'  The  windows  might  be  so  dirty  that  I  could  not  see 
12 


178  IS    WORK   DEGRADING  T 

through  them,  and  I  would  never  Avash  them,"  said  a 
young  girl,  one  day. 

"  My  dear" — I  thought  she  would  not  brook  my  say 
ing  it  to  her — "  your  dirty  windows  are  vulgar,  net  your 
friend  who  desires  to  make  them  bright  and  clean." 

Which  is  the  lady — she  who  sits  b}~  an  untidy  hearth 
all  day,  or  she  who  brushes  or  wipes  it  clean  before  she 
•will  sit  by  it  ?  She  who  carefully  dusts  her  room,  or  she 
who  puts  on  a  dress  which  has  left  "carelessness"  writ 
ten  upon  the  half-wiped  chair  or  bedstead,  where  it 
hung  ? 

"  PolLencss  is  to  do  and  say 
The  kindest  thing  in  the  kindest  way." 

Which  is  the  lady — she  who  calls  up  the  weary  maid- 
of-all-work  from  the  kitchen  to  wait  upon  her,  or  she 
who  goes  into  the  kitchen,  and  assists  the  tired  girl  at 
the  ironing-table  ? 

I  want  to  tell  you  of  two  circumstances,  which  come 
to  my  memory,  to  assist  you  in  your  decision. 

I  knew  two  young  ladies,  cousins,  in  the  South. 
Their  family  was  highly  respectable,  well  connected,  but 
impoverished.  Ann  was  visiting  at  her  uncle's.  They 
could  keep  but  two  servants,  who  had  all  their  time  oc 
cupied  by  necessary  household  labour.  The  weather 
•was  such  as  belongs  to  July.  Fannie  went  down  to  the 
ironing-room  one  day  in  every  week,  and  spent  most  of 
this  day  over  Ann's  ruffles,  white  muslin  dress,  and  in 
numerable  skirts.  They  were  equally  well  educated, 
and  in  the  evening  they  were  equally  Avell  dressed,  and 
well  looking ;  but  Fannie,  whose  active,  energetic  nature 


IS    WORK    DEGRADING  f  179 

was  quickened  by  her  healthful  exercise — wnose  heart 
was  glowing  with  true  womanly  life  and  love — was  the 
charm  of  the  group  in  the  drawing-room.  Fresh,  vivid, 
sparkling,  her  clear,  just  ideas  of  life  were  charming, 
her  piquancy  most  captivating.  Was  she  less  a  lady 
than  the  gentle,  languidly  graceful  Annie? 

Once  I  had  the  happiness  of  spending  an  evening  in 
a  singularly  interesting  family.  The  mother  was  a  lady 
of  noble  foreign  birth.  She  had  been  brought  up  at  a 
court,  educated  Avith  the  king's  nieces,  married  a  man 
of  equally  noble  family ;  her  oldest  child  was  born  heir 
to  a  princely  estate,  and  was  cradled  in  princely  luxury. 
But  adversity  came.  The  husband  fell  into  disgrace  ; 
the  estate  Avas  confiscated  ;  he  fled  to  save  his  life,  and 
the  lady  and  her  little  one  fled  with  him. 

When  I  knew  them  the  husband  was  again  in  Europe, 

and  Madame sustained  herself  and  her  now  three 

children  in  a  happy  competer'vy,  by  teaching.  I  met  at 
her  house — for  she  was  recognised  in  the  highest  circles 
of  the  city  as  a  lady — some  of  the  most  elegant  and 
cultivated  persons  I  have  ever  known.  We  had  mosf 
excellent  music  of  the  harp,  piano,  and  violin ;  all  the 
family  excelled  as  musicians. 

Madame had  collected  a  choice  library  of  five 

hundred  volumes  in  the  various  modern  languages,  in 
all  of  which  she  was  skilled. 

She  conversed  charmingly,  and  her  daughters  were 
becoming  her  rivals  in  accomplishments  and  graces. 

There  were  two  servants  employed  about  the  house 
hold,  but  none  appeared  in  the  drawing-room  that  even 
ing,  except  once.  When  refreshments  were  to  be  served, 


180  IS   WORK   DEGRADING  ? 

they  deposited  two  trays  on  a  side-table,  and  from  them 
Heinrich,  Nina,  and  Angelique  supplied  the  company. 
They  brought  on  smaller  trays  the  dainty  cups  of  choco 
late,  the  delicate  cakes,  and  bonbons.  A  Southern  lady, 
to  whom  this  appeared  strange,  remarked  it  to  another. 
Madame heard  this  almost  involuntary  remark. 

"  It  is  a  custom  which  I  find  to  be  peculiar  to  my  own 
country,  but  it  pleases  me  to  retain  it  here.  When  we 
wished  to  show  honour  to  a  guest  in  our  own  chateau, 
my  father,  my  husband,  or  myself, — for  I  was  an  only 
child, — served  him  with  the  wine-cup,  and  suffered  no 
menial  to  do  anything  for  him.  My  children  allow  the 
servants  to  do  as  little  as  possible  for  myself,  and  they 
reciprocate  all  kindly  offices  amongst  each  other." 

I  knew  this  family  for  several  years.  The  eldest  girl 
• — she  who  had  opened  her  eyes  to  this  world  under  a 
silken  canopy,  and  whose  apparellings  had  been  the 
richest  laces  and  embroideries — she  whom  servants  with 
out  number  had  vied  with  each  other  in  serving — was 
now  the  little  housekeeper.  Every  morning  she  went  to 
market,  she  transacted  for  her  mother  all  her  out-door 
business,  kept  her  books  of  accounts,  attended  to  the 
comfort  of  the  boarding  pupils,  and  to  the  family  ward 
robe. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years,  Madame 's  health 

failed.  Her  girls  kept  up  the  school  as  well  as  they 
could,  but  the  strictest  economy  became  necessary.  One 
servant  was  dismissed,  and  Angelique  and  Nina  took  her 
place  about  the  house.  Angelique,  the  elder,  became 
the  milliner  and  dressmaker  for  the  others.  They  were 


THE    CHILDREN    OF   \UE   T,ORD.  181 

young,  but  they  taught,  worked,  laboured  for  their  mo 
ther,  each  other,  and  their  young  brother. 

They  have  become  noble  women  in  such  a  sense  as 
mere  accidents  of  birth  or  circumstance  could  never  en 
noble  them.  They  are  ladies  in  every  sense  of  this 
word.  What  says  the  little  miss  whose  white  hands 
never  touched  a  broom  or  a  duster,  whose  delicate  shoes 
were  never  soiled  on  a  wet  pavement,  who  is  vainly  igno 
rant  of  all  kitchen  details,  who  could  not  make  up  a  fire, 
or  brush  up  a  hearth,  or  remove  finger-marks  from  a 
door,  or  burnish  the  brass,  or  clear-starch  her  muslins  ? 
Which  is  the  lady,  she  or  Angelique? 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD. 

LITTLE  Franz  was  the  son  of  a  Swiss  cowherd ;  and 
in  his  belted  blouse  and  wooden  sandals,  with  an  iron- 
pointed  stick  in  his  hand,  small  as  he  was,  he  wandered 
by  his  father's  side,  as  he  herded  his  cows  on  the  sum 
mer-pasture  of  Mount  Flegere.  Franz  dearly  loved  the 
cows  ;  he  knew  all  of  their  characters  ;  they  were  to  him 
as  dear  friends  to  be  lovingly  tended,  and  their  milky 
odour  was  to  him  a  delicious  perfume,  and  the  pure, 
rich,  mountain  milk  seemed  always  to  him  like  a  heavenly 
gift.  But  Franz  had  other  pleasures  beside  the  cows  : 
he  dearly  loved  his  father,  and  he  would  sit  for  hours  on 
the  lofty  mountain  side,  listening  to  him,  as  he  talked 
of  the  magnificent  scenery  that  piled  itself  in  massive 


182  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD. 

grandeur  before  them.  It  was  truly  beautiful.  Mount 
Flegere  sbuts  in  on  the  north  the  lovely  valley  of  Cha- 
mouni,  which  looks  like  a  little  Eden,  nestling  itself  at 
the  foot  of  Mont  Blanc.  Now  Franz,  as  a  Swiss  boy, 
had  a  wonderful  pride  in  this  lofty  mountain  ;  his  father 
told  him  that  it  was  the  highest  point  in  Europe.  So 
the  child  ever  thought  that  it  was  nearest  to  Heaven  ;  and 
oftentimes  would  he  sit  in  the  summer  evening  watching 
the  sunlight  fade  upon  the  hills ;  first  the  dark  shadow 
crept  over  the  green  and  flowery  valley,  with  its  winding 
stream  and  clustering  white  houses,  and  then  the  sha 
dow  would  creep  up  the  dark  and  gloomy  Mont-au-vert, 
looking  so  sombre  with  its  coronal  of  pines ;  and  then 
the  Mer-de-glace,  that  frozen  sea,  would  grow  black,  and 
the  wonderful  glacier  de  Boisson,  with  its  piled  ice, 
looking  like  a  frozen  river  that  had  rushed  from  the 
cloud-capped  hills,  and  had  been  congealed  in  wild,  mad 
waves.  For  eighteen  long  leagues  did  this  grand  glacier 
•wind  its  way  back  among  those  solitary  mountain  wilds ; 
and  it  filled  the  little  Franz  with  awe,  thus  to  watch 
the  darkness  creeping  up,  and  up,  even  till  the  lofty 
"Needles,"  with  their  tapering,  heaven-kissing  spires, 
looked  like  mighty  black  giants,  holding  watch  and 
weird  over  the  lowly  valley.  But  he  loved  so  dearly 
the  rosy  glory  that  lingered  long  around  the  snow- 
covered  peak  of  the  great  mountain — when  all  else  was 
shrouded  in  darkness,  the  sunlight  gleamed  in  a  won 
drous  beauty  on  these  glistening  heights  ;  and  our  little 
Franz  thought  that  angels  must  live  on  just  such  hills  in 
the  celestial  Heaven,  and  he  never  turned  his  eyes  from 
Uie  lingering  glory  till  it  had  melted  to  purple,  and  then. 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   THE  LORD.  183 

he  would,  with  a  serene  and  holy  love  in  his  heart,  seek 
his  mother  in  her  mountain  home. 

The  father  of  Franz,  though  a  cowherd,  was  not  a 
vulgar  man,  he  had  the  native  grace  that  marks  those 
mountain  peasants ;  and,  when  a  boy,  had  lived  in  the 
family  of  the  good  Oberlin,  and  had  brought  back  with 
him  to  his  mountain  home  many  beautiful  thoughts, 
many  sublime  truths ;  of  all  these  he  talked  to  the  little 
Franz,  and  thus  his  thoughts  were  elevated  ever  above 
the  earth.  Franz  could  look  at  nothing  that  did  not 
make  him  think  of  Heaven.  And  when  the  short,  warm, 
bright  summer  was  gone,  and  the  herdsman  had  driven 
his  cows  into  the  valley  below,  and  there  left  them  in 
the  comfortable  winter  stalls  of  their  rich  owner,  ah ! 
then  Franz  had  pleasant  hours,  when  the  wintry  winds 
howled  in  their  mad  fury,  and  the  drifting  snow  almost 
buried  the  peasant's  cottage.  Then  it  was  bright  and 
warm  and  pleasant  in  the  'long  evenings,  when  the  Al 
pine  pine  cast  such  a  cheerful  blaze  of  light  into  every 
nook  and  corner  of  that  small  room ;  and  the  good  mo 
ther  sat  plying  her  distaff,  spinning  the  wool  for  the 
warm  winter  garment,  and  the  kind  father,  in  the  bright 
firelight,  carved  those  pretty  Swiss  toys  that  adorn  the 
shops  of  Geneva,  those  little  tiny  cottages  that  you  have 
often  seen  even  in  America.  It  is  one  of  the  delights 
of  the  gentle  little  Franz,  to  arrange  those  carved  houses 
into  a  city — a  "  heavenly  Jerusalem"  he  called  it — and 
\hen  to  people  it  in  his  own  fancy ;  he  had  fathers  and 
nothers  and  Franzes  in  every  house ;  they  were  the  an 
gels  of  God  to  him  ;  and  thus  he  made  himself  happy 
with  beautiful  fancies. 


184  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD. 

Franz  had  never  had  a  child  to  play  with ;  he  had 
seen  children  in  the  valley,  and  he  longed,  oftentimes, 
to  play  with  them,  but  he  was  timid,  and  was  little  ac 
customed  to  the  usual  ways  of  children,  so  that  he  had 
never  spoken  to  a  child.  Hence  the  children  in  his 
"heavenly  Jerusalem"  were  peculiarly  dear  to  him. 

But  winter,  too,  has  its  bright  days  on  the  Alps,  when 
the  sky  is  blue  and  cloudless,  and  the  sunlight  glitters 
from  mountain  side  to  mountain  side,  in  dazzling  bril 
liancy,  and  clothes  the  earth  with  a  jewelled  robe  of 
crystalline  beauty.  It  was  such  a  day  as  this  when 
Franz  thought  he  would  make  a  winter  excursion ;  it 
was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  gone  alone  on 
the  mountain,  when  its  summer  paths  were  all  covered 
over ;  for  he  was  only  eight  years  old.  But  the  father 
had  gone  to  the  valley  to  make  purchases,  and  the  mo 
ther  was  using  the  bright  sunshine  to  do  housework, 
and  Franz,  left  to  himself,  drew  on  his  hooded  sheep 
skin  coat,  took  his  staff  in  his  hand,  and  followed  with 
eager  step  the  track  of  a  chamois  in  the  snow.  The 
keen  mountain  air  braced  his  active  little  limbs,  and  on 
and  on  he  went,  till  a  sensation  of  hunger  made  him 
think  of  his  home  and  his  dinner.  But,  alas !  vain  waa 
this  thought,  for  Franz  knew  not  where  he  was,  the 
mountain  was  strange  to  him,  he  recognised  nothing,  he 
knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  Alone  on  the  wild  and 
desolate  mountain,  cold  and  hungry,  poor  Franz  was 
very  sad  ;  and  now,  to  his  terror,  the  wind  began  its 
shrill  whistle  around  the  icy  crags  The  little  warmth 
that  the  bright  sun  gave  was  dissipated  by  the  cold,  cold 
winds.  Franz  wandered  about  hopelessly,  every  moment 


THE   CHILDREN    OF   THE   LORD.  185 

nis  feet  and  hands  grew  more  numb  ;  he  could  no  longer 
hold  his  little  staff,  and  finally  crouched  down  in  despair, 
heside  a  sheltering  rock.  He  knew  that  he  must  keep 
himself  awake,  or  the  death-sleep  would  come.  But, 
hungry  and  tired  and  frozen,  the  child  yielded  to  the 
lethargy.  Yet,  as  it  was  coming  on,  Franz  thought  he 
would  say  his  prayers ;  but  his  frozen  brain  could  only 
recall  the  words,  with  which  his  dear  mother  always 
parted  from  him  : — 

"  Trust  God, 
Dear  child  ; 
God,  the  Lord, 
Sees  and  knows 
Everything." 

And  thus  Franz  slept.  But  it  was  a  beautiful  sleep, 
for  in  a  moment  a  glorious  summer  sun  shone  around 
him,  so  warm  and  bright,  that  it  seemed  an  infinite  com 
fort  to  him  ;  and  he  was  lying  on  a  green,  soft  bank ; 
it  was  as  if  he  had  just  ceased  uttering  his  little  prayer, 
and  yet  how  wonderful  it  was — he  looked  down  on  a  city, 
not  the  village  of  Chamouni,  but  a  city  as  of  finely 
carved  Swiss  cottages,  ranged  in  beautiful  order  on  a 
green  and  sunny  slope  high  on  the  smiling  mountain 
side.  On  one  side  were  rich  pasture  fields,  and  cows, 
so  large,  and  mild,  and  beautiful,  were  feeding  there ; 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fair  city  lay  another  green  field, 
and  still  waters  were  flowing  through  it,  and  the  whitest 
lambs  were  browsing  on  soft  grass  and  starry-looking 
flowers,  and  a  wondrous  light  lay  over  it  all.  Franz 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  again — it  was  a  living  pio 


186  THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD. 

ture  of  what  he  had  so  often  seen  in  his  own  mind.  But 
what  was  his  joy  to  see  children,  real,  beautiful  children, 
walking  out  of  those  pretty  houses — boys  and  girls,  in 
Swiss  dresses.  And  their  blue  eyes,  and  clear  mountain 
complexions,  and  flowing  yellow  curls,  were  prettier  far 
than  any  that  Franz  had  ever  seen.  The  children 
greeted  each  other  with  a  glad  joy,  and  then  formed 
into  groups ;  and  some  went  into  the  pastures  and  ran 
about  in  perfect  delight,  gathering  the  rich  clover  flow 
ers,  with  which  to  feed  the  cows.  Some  were  making 
garlands,  with  which  they  decked  the  lambs  that  sported 
with  them  ;  others  climbed  the  mountain  side,  and  plucked 
the  luscious  grapes  that  hung  from  white  trellises.  Franz 
was  charmed — it  was  such  a  vision  of  beauty  to  his 
delighted  eyes.  So  many  children  he  had  never  before 
seen.  Presently  a  little  girl  stood  before  him  ;  she  was 
so  bright  and  gentle  that  Franz  could  only  think  she 
was  an  angel  of  God ;  for  round  her  shone  a  soft,  lumi 
nous  light,  and  her  white  dress  was  more  pure  and 
glistening  than  the  snows  of  the  mountain,  and  the 
wreath  of  flowers  that  crowned  her  bright  curls  and 
shining  face  were  blue  as  a  cloudless  sky  ;  but  the  rosy 
light  in  her  cheek  seemed  all  at  once  to  change  them 
into  roses,  for  the  warm  blood  rushed  into  her  fair  cheek 
as  she  said,  "Wilt  thou  come  and  play?"  Franz 
thought  how  would  his  shaggy  coat  and  wooden  shoes 
look  in  that  company.  But  then  again  he  saw  that  he 
too  was  dressed  in  beautiful  garments,  and  the  little 
girl  held  a  wreath  in  one  hand,  which  she  smilingly 
placed  on  his  head ;  then  she  kissed  him  and  said, 
"  Thou  art  very  beautiful ;"  and  her  love  filled  the  heart 


THE   CHILDREN    OF   THE    LORD  187 

ol  Franz  with  an  inexpressible  happiness.  Yes,  now  he 
haJ  a  child  to  play  with,  the  yearning  anguish  of  his 
henrt  was  satisfied,  and  he  followed  the  dear  little  one 
as  she  bounded  before  him,  looking  back  so  bright  and 
happy.  And  then  she  stopped  in  a  grassy  spo.t,  whero 
a  clear  spring  bubbled  up,  and  two  silver-leafed  olive 
trees  interlaced  their  branches  above  it,  and  birds  sang 
in  the  trees,  and  the  purple  grapes  hung  from  the  twining 
vines  that  clasped  their  curling  tendrils  round  the  trees, 
clothing  them  in  a  rich  and  wondrous  drapery  of  beauty. 
The  little  child  bid  Franz  be  seated,  and  said  to  him, 
"  Wilt  thou  drink  ?"  And  she  took  a  crystal  cup  and 
dipped  it  into  the  sparkling  waters.  Never  did  an 
earthly  king  drink  from  such  a  jewelled  cup.  And  the 
waters  were  like  life  to  him.  And  the -little  one  said, 
"  These  are  the  waters  of  truth  that  our  Lord  gives  us." 
And  Franz  said  to  her,  "Whose  child  art  thou?"  And 
she  answered,  "  I  am  the  Lord's  child."  And  she  said, 
"  Thou  hast  drank  of  the  waters  of  truth,  wilt  thou  not 
now  eat  of  the  bread  of  life  ?"  And  she  held  before 
him  a  plate  of  gold,  and  fine  bread  was  on  it.  The 
hungry  Franz  ate  with  a  boundless  delight.  Then  she 
plucked  purple  grapes,  and  said,  "  Eat !  for  this  is  the 
fruit  of  good  works."  And  she  laughingly  said,  "  I 
think  our  Lord  has  let  me  perform  a  very  good  work 
this  happy  day,  for  thou  art  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  He 
has  sent  me  to  fill  thy  mouth  with  good  things."  And 
the  heart  of  Franz  must  have  beamed  out  of  his  eyes, 
for  his  heart  was  filled  with  good  things  too.  Then  the 
angel-child  said,  "  Shall  we  not  go  into  the  heavenly 
city,  the  New  Jerusalem?"  And  she  led  Franz  down 


188  THE    CHILDREN    OP    THE    LORD. 

the  mountain  side.  But  what  a  wonderful  city  was  tlna 
when  he  came  near  to  it !  Afar  off  he  had  thought  it  a  city 
of  Swiss  cottages,  but  when  he  came  near  he  found  that 
"  the  building  of  the  wall  of  it  was  jasper,  and  the  city 
was  pure  gold,  like  unto  clear  glass ;  and  the  twelve 
gates  were  twelve  pearls,  every  several  gate  was  of  one 
pearl ;  and  the  street  of  the  city  was  pure  gold,  as  it 
were  transparent  glass.  And  the  city  had  no  need  of 
the  sun,  neither  of  the  moon  to  shine  in  it,  for  the  glory 
of  God  did  lighten  it."  And  wonderful  it  was  for  Franz, 
as  he  walked  there  in  all  this  magnificence  and  beauty, 
to  look  up  and  see,  as  it  were,  Mont  Blanc,  towering  in  a 
holy  grandeur,  but  bright  with  an  exceeding  great  glory. 
The  angel  said,  "  That  is  the  hill  of  the  Lord,  great  and 
high,  and  light  ever  flows  from  the  Divine  Sun  upon  it, 
and  its  rosy  glory  never  fades."  Franz  saw  happy 
children  coming  in  from  the  green  fields,  and  singing, 
as  they  went,  holy  songs  of  love  to  the  Lord,  and  love 
to  each  other.  And  he  turned  to  his  companion  and 
said,  "  Whose  are  these  children  ?"  and  she,  smiling, 
said,  "  All,  all  are  the  Lord's  children ;  and  thou,  too, 
art  the  child  of  the  Lord  !"  And  the  blessedness  of 
our  little  Franz  was  like  a  perfect  love  ;  when  all  at  once 
the  shadow  of  a  great  darkness  fell  upon  him ;  he  could 
no  longer  see  the  angel-child  ;  for  a  moment  he  heard 
her  voice,  then  he  was  deaf  to  that ;  the  glorious  city 
was  shut  out  from  him ;  he  felt  the  most  dreadful  sensa 
tions — a  mighty  agony — the  pain  of  suffocation — a  ter 
rible  contraction ;  and  poor  Franz  opened  his  eyes  in 
his  own  peasant  home.  Oh,  he  could  not  bear  it — the 
heaven-life  was  gone.  But  Franz  heard  his  mother's 


THE   CHILDREN    OF   THE   LORD.  189 

deep  sobs,  and  then  he  had  a  great  pity  for  the  earth- 
sorrow,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  and  said,  "Mother!" 
And  the  good  mother  now  wept  for  joy.  Oh,  how  she 
had  mourned  her  little  Franz  ;  what  agonies  she  had 
Buffered  at  his  loss ;  and  how  she  and  the  father  had 
searched  until  they  had  found  the  frozen  L  y ;  and  how 
they  had  striven  to  bring  back  life  into  thob  stiff  limbs. 
Franz  listened  to  it  all,  but  weary  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 
All  that  he  could  say  was,  "  Ah,  mother,  I  was  so  happy  ! 
why  did  you  bring  me  back  here  ?"  But  the  mother 
could  not  understand  him ;  and  it  was  many  days  before 
Franz  was  strong  enough  to  tell  what  he  had  seen  in  the 
death-sleep,  when  his  outer  body  was  partially  separated 
from  his  spirit,  and  he  had  come  into  his  spiritual  con 
sciousness.  The  mother  and  the  father  listened  with 
awe;  the  child  had  seen  angels;  he  had  talked  with 
them — eaten  and  drank  with  them  ;  had  actually  walked 
in  the  streets  of  the  heavenly  New  Jerusalem ;  yea,  had 
been  an  angel  himself  for  a  few  blissful  moments.  Then 
said  the  loving  mother,  "  Ah,  Franz,  had  I  known  thy 
joys  I  would  not  have  wished  thee  back."  And  the 
pale  sickly  boy  turned  his  large  blue  beaming  eyes  upon 
her  and  said,  "  It  is  well,  dear  mother  ;  I  thank  the  dear 
God  that  He  let  me  come  back  to  tell  you  how  happy  I 
was.  When  I  go  again,  thou  wilt  not  mourn,  dear 
mother."  And  the  mother  saw  that  her  little  Franz 
would  very  soon  go  again  to  the  beautiful  city.  But  she 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  was  glad  in  the  joys 
that  awaited  her  only  little  one.  She  no  more  called 
him  hers  ;  he  was  the  "  Lord's  child,"  and  she  loved  him 
vith  a  most  holy  love,  and  tended  him  gently,  for  pining 


190          GIRLS'  HEADS  AGAINST  VEST  PATTERNS 

sickness  had  come  upon  the  little  mountain  boy.  And 
•when  the  early  spring  came,  they  dug  a  grave  on  the 
mountain  side,  and  the  dust  of  his  body  crumbled  to  its 
mother  earth  in  sight  of  the  great  mountain.  And  while 
the  mother  loved  to  linger  round  the  green  mound,  and 
the  father  r  ove  his  cattle  to  feed  on  that  sunny  slope, 
that  he  mi.  nt  sit  beside  the  grave  of  his  little  one,  yd 
they  never  mourned  ;  it  was  to  them  a  joy  and  blessed 
ness  that  Franz  had  gone  to  the  great  and  beautiful 
city,  to  sport  there  for  ever  with  "  The  Children  of  the 
Lord." 


GIRLS'  HEADS  AGAINST  VEST  PATTERNS. 

"  TICKLED  TO  DEATH — Boys  when  they  arrive  at  age, 
and  girls  when  they  first  lay  their  heads  against  a  vest 
pattern."- 

As  we  never  were  a  boy,  we  cannot  attempt  to  speak 
of  the  sensations  one  would  experience  at  any  age,  but 
we  are  somewhat  curious  about  that  other  matter.  Can 
any  girl  remember  how  she  felt  when  she  first  laid  her 
head  "  against  a  vest  pattern  ?" 

How  old  is  she,  usually,  at  that  particular  and  impor 
tant  time  ?  Can  you  inform  us  ?  We  had  always  before 
supposed  that  little  girls  had  papas  who  loved  and 
caressed  them,  and  that  their  heads  were  laid  against 
vest  patterns  a  thousand  times  before  they  could  talk. 
We  are  certain  they  have  a  right  to  that  place  for  their 
heads  while  their  fathers  live ;  and  where  there  is  a  pro- 


GIRLS'    HEADS   AGAINST   VEST   PATTERNS.  191 

per  state  of  feeling  existing  between  the  parties  they 
will  often  be  laid  there. 

Mr.  Smith,  is  that  tall  and  elegant  daughter  of  yours 
in  the  habit  of  it  ?  Have  you  become  so  accustomed  to 
it  from  her  childhood,  that  you  do  not  go  home  at  night 
from  the  business  of  the  day  with  one-half  the  pleasure, 
iv  hen  you  know  she  is  out  of  town,  or  visiting  her  cou 
sins?  It  is  your  own  fault,  if  it  is  otherwise.  Your 
little  girl,  of  eight  or  ten,  watches  the  hour  for  your 
coming,  and  stands  with  longing  heart  and  wistful  eyes  ; 
how  she  would  love  to  bound  into  your  arms,  and 
lay  her  head  there.  But  your  brow  is  knit,  and  your 
head  is  full  of  bank  stock  and  merchandise ;  you  do  not 
even  notice  her,  and  she  glides  away  with  a  quivering 
lip,  and  an  aching  void  within.  Father,  how  can  you 
thus  defraud  your  daughter  ?  You  think  of  her  some 
times  with  affection,  when  your  business  is  not  very  press 
ing  !  Occasionally,  once  a  year,  perhaps,  you  bring  home 
a  present  for  her,  and  she  thanks  you,  and  gives  the  re 
quired  kiss  very  respectfully  and  timidly.  At  some  of 
these  times  it  may,  perhaps,  strike  you  that  she  is  cold. 
Alas  !  you  yourself,  with  your  chilling  indifference,  have 
frozen  over  the  gushing  fountain  that  would  else  have 
fertilized  your  heart  with  its  overflowing  freshness ;  you 
have  dimmed  the  brightness  of  that  jewel,  whose  spark 
ling  rays  would  have  enlightened  and  vivified  your  life ; 
you  have  crushed  the  tender  flower,  whose  fragrance 
would  have  penetrated  to,  and  gladdened  your  very 
soul.  Ah,  fathei  !  how  can  you  thus  have  defrauded  your 
self? 

There  is  often  too  little  manifestation  of  affection  in 


192          GIRLS'  HEADS  AGAINST  VEST  PATTERNS 

the  family  circle.  This  is  something  peculiai//  acooa- 
sary  to  the  happiness  of  girls ;  if  they  do  not  receive  it 
at  home,  they  will  be  tempted  to  accept  it  elsewhere, 
and  you  may  some  fine  day  find  your  daughter's  head 
laid  against  the  vest  pattern  of  one  whom  you  would  be 
far  from  choosing  as  her  companion  for  life. 

George,  or  Henry,  you  really  love  that  pretty  sistei 
of  yours,  and  are  often  proud  of  her  when  in  company 
together.  Why  do  you,  when  at  home,  assume  an  in 
difference  in  your  manner  to  her,  amounting  almost  to 
contempt  ?  or  notice,  only  to  tease  her  ?  Think  you,  by 
this,  to  establish  your  superiority  ?  Would  it  be  dero 
gatory  to  your  incipient  manhood  to  caress  and  speak 
kindly  to  one  who  loves  you  devotedly,  and  who  would 
repay  you  a  thousand-fold  for  every  attention  you  might 
bestow  ?  You  live  in  the  same  house  ;  sit  at  the  same 
table — brother  and  sister.  Yet  are  you  companions — I 
had  almost  said  friends,  even?  You  have  your  own 
affairs,  which  you  do  not  condescend  to  communicate  to 
her,  unless  it  is  in  a  general,  boastful  kind  of  a  way,  to 
illustrate  the  above-mentioned  superiority,  and  you  will 
not  listen,  if  she  attempts  to  enlist  your  sympathy  in 
any  of  hers. 

Suppose  you  try  the  experiment,  for  once.  On  com 
ing  home,  to-morrow,  seat  yourself  by  her  side,  with  the 
remark  that  you  have  something  to  tell  her. 

She  may,  perhaps,  be  startled,  and  think  you  are  at 
some  of  your  old  tricks ;  but  let  her  see  you  are  in  ear 
nest.  Relate  a  pleasant  scene,  or  ask  her  advice  about 
something,  and  before  you  have  done,  if  you  tell  your 
ttory  well,  you  can  have  your  arm  around  her  waist,  and 


GIRLS'   HEADS   AGAINST    VEST   PATTERNS.  193 

her  head  against  your  vest  pattern.  It  will  do  yourself, 
as  well  as  her,  more  good  than  you  can  well  imagine. 
You  will  feel  that  you  have  a  treasure,  a  source  of  de 
light  unthought  of  before. 

From  that  time  consult  with  her  frequently  upon  your 
plans  and  projects.  You  will  find  her  faithful,  sensible, 
and  quick  to  arrive  at  a  correct  conclusion ;  grateful  for 
your  confidence,  and  ready  to  do  anything  in  her  power 
to  assist  you.  I  once  knew  a  brother  who  said  to  his 
sister,  in  a  half-sportive  way, 

"  You  are  very  pretty — prettier  than  any  of  the  girls 
I  see  around,  and  I  believe  I  will  court  you" — as  the 
term  was  then  used — "  for  my  wife." 

"  Very  well,"  said  she,  in  the  same  strain ;  "  come  on, 
and  see  if  you  can  get  me." 

From  that  time  he  redoubled  his  attentions  to  her ; 
and  what  was  the  result?  Why,  the  interchange  of 
kindly  acts,  and  the  never  speaking  to  each  other  ex 
cept  in  words  of  affection,  strengthened  and  increased 
their  attachment  for  each  other  to  a  remarkable  degree, 
and  they  remained  through  life  connected  by  the  strong 
est  and  purest  ties  of  friendship.  So  true  it  is,  that 
where  love  is  expressed,  that  love  will  increase,  and 
where  it  is  repressed  or  neglected,  it  will  diminish  and 
die. 

Fathers  !  Brothers  !  The  salutary  influence  of  those 
heads,  beautiful  in  their  rich  and  glossy  ringlets,  often 
laid  against  your  vest  patterns,  against  your  hearts,  will 
be  felt  by  you  in  the  counting-room,  in  the  street,  and 
in  the  public  assembly,  inciting  you  to  good,  and  turning 
away  your  feet  from  the  path  to  ruin. 
13 


FAITHFUL  LOVE— A  FAMILY  PICTURE. 

THE  scene  is  a  domestic  one  ;  the  season,  winter  :  the 
time,  night.  Supper  is  cleared  away,  and  the  infant, 
held  in  pa's  arm  during  the  performance  of  that  neces 
sary  duty,  has  been  restored  to  her  mother,  to  nestle, 
and  smile,  and  sleep. 

John  and  Charlotte,  the  elder  two,  have  drawn  pic 
tures  on  their  slates  ;  Alfred  and  Robert  have  romped 
and  tussled  upon  the  floor,  by  turns,  shouting  with  laugh 
ter,  or  crying  over  short-lived  hurts ;  pa  himself  has 
settled  with  his  green  glasses  to  read  a  late  number  of 
Brother  Bird's  Medium,  while  Uncle  Frank,  weary  with 
the  bodily  labours  of  the  day,  is  half  asleep  in  the  cor 
ner,  though  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Burns's  Poems,  and 
making  a  half-pretence  of  reading  it. 

All  at  once  a  simultaneous  shout  arises  from  the  juve 
nile  group ;  there  is  a  throwing  down  of  slates,  with  a 
bang,  upon  the  table,  and  a  rush  for  the  possession  of 
pa's  knee.  The  shout  is,  "Pa,  tell  us  some  stories!" 
And  it  is  clear  from  the  general  look  of  assurance  and 
the  happy  little  faces,  both  that  this  is  a  very  common 
practice  at  this  time  of  night,  and  that  the  practice  is  a 
highly  pleasing  one,  if  not  to  pa  himself,  at  least  to  hia 
little  pets. 

A  squabble  for  the  knee  results,  as  usual,  in  favour  of 
the  youngest,  by  name  Robert,  by  nature  coarse  and 
piratical ;  and  the  other  three  content  themselves  with 
leaning  full  weight  upon  the  shoulders  and  limbs  of  the 


FAITHFUL  LOVE.  195 

beleaguered  parent,  weights  that  would  crush  an  ox,  but 
do  not  discompose  a  father,  who  rather  looks  as  though 
he  could  hold  four  or  five  more. 

"  And  now  who  shall  hear  the  first  story  ?" 

"  Sister — begin  with  her!" 

"  Well,  what  shall  it  be  about?" 

"A  sailor,"  says  John. 

u  A  little  girl,"  says  sis. 

"  A  panther,"  says  Alf. 

"  A  monkey,"  says  Robert. 

"  A  little  girl  it  shall  be,  and  so  all  of  you  listen  with 
all  your  might. 

"  Once  there  was  a  little  girl,  about  eight  years  old, 
named  Mary.  And  there  was  a  lady  who  was  very  kind 
to  Mary,  ani  made  clothes  for  her  and  mended  them 
when  torn,  and  washed  them  when  they  needed  it.  And 
this  lady  never  seemed  tired  of  taking  care  of  Mary. 
For  when  she  was  only  a  little  baby  the  lady  nursed  her. 
When  she  was  old  enough  to  walk,  the  lady  taught  her 
to  walk.  She  taught  her  to  say  her  letters,  and  to  read, 
and  afterwards  to  write — to  sew  and  to  knit. 

"  She  gave  her  a  little  garden  and  rose-bushes  and 
flower-seeds  to  plant  in  it,  and  a  little  hoe  to  kill'  the 
weeds.  She  taught  her  how  to  sing  hymns,  and  night 
and  morning  to  kneel  down  at  her  side  to  pray  God  for 
His  blessings.  As  soon  as  she  got  big  enough  she  sent 
her  to  school.  She  paid  a  great  deal  of  money  to  the 
schoolmaster  every  session,  and  bought  her  a  great  many 
books. 

"  Now  how  do  you  think  this  little  girl  should  have 
treated  that  kind,  good  lady  ?" 


196  FAITHFUL   LOVE. 

"  She  ought  to  do  what  she  told  her,"  says  John. 

"  She  ought  to  love  her  mighty  good,"  says  sis. 

"I'd  whip  her  if  she  wasn't,"  says  Alf. 

"Never  cry  a  bit,"  says  Rob. 

"  Well,  now,  strange  as  it  may  sound  to  you,  that  little 
girl  didn't  always  do  what  the  kind  lady  told  her,  and 
she  wasn't  always  good.  Sometimes  she  was  very 
naughty,  sometimes  she  would  tell  stories,  sometimes 
quarrel  with  others. 

"  Then  this  good,  kind  lady,  instead  of  sending  the 
bad  girl  off,  would  correct  her  for  being  naughty,  and 
pray  God  to  make  her  better :  and  then  so  soon  as  the 
little  girl  was  sorry  and  would  try  to  be  good,  the  lady 
would  kiss  her  and  love  her  as  well  as  ever.  Now,  wasn't 
that  lady  a  most  charming  good  lady?" 

"  Just  as  good  as  could  be,"  says  John. 

"  The  goodest  ever  I  heard  of,"  says  sis. 

"I'd  a  whipped  her  harder,"  muttered  Alf. 

By  this  time  Rob  had  gone  to  sleep,  and,  of  course, 
said  nothing. 

"  At  last  this  little  girl  was  taken  sick,  oh,  very  sick 
indeed.  She  had  the  fever,  and  was  as  sick  as  she  could 
be.  Being  sick  made  her  very  cross  and  bad.  She 
would  scream  aloud  at  the  least  noise.  She  would  re 
fuse  to  take  medicine,  until  they  had  to  pour  it  down 
her  throat.  She  lost  her  senses,  and  did  not  know 
anybody. 

"  But  the  good  kind  lady,  never  got  tired  of  watching 
over  her,  and  taking  care  of  her.  For  more  than  seven 
nights  she  never  went  to  bed,  but  sat  by  the  side  of  the 
sick  little  girl,  from  sunset  to  sunrise.  She  never  got 


FAITHFUL   LOVE.  197 

angry  with  her  once.  She  would  take  her  out  of  bed,  and 
hold  her  in  her  arms.  She  mixed  her  medicines.  She 
prayed  to  God  a  thousand  times  that  the  dear  little  girl 
might  get  well.  Oh,  she  was  a  dear,  good  lady,  don't 
you  think  so  ?" 

"  But  did  she  get  well  ?"  asked  the  three. 

"No;  poor  little  Mary  died.  After  all  the  kind 
lady's  care,  after  all  her  trouble,  and  watching,  and 
everything,  she  died.  They  put  her  into  a  coffin  and 
huried  her.  All  the  other  folks  soon  forgot  that  there 
ever  had  been  such  a  little  girl  as  Mary.  But  the  dear, 
good  lady  never  forgot  it.  No,  she  never  forgot  little 
Mary.  She  kept  all  her  clothes  and  her  little  doll. 
And  she  cried  and  mourned  whenever  she  remembered 
little  Mary.  She  was  never  happy  again  after  Mary 
died.  And  when  she  died,  which  was  about  fire  years 
afterwards,  she  said  she  hoped  she  should  find  little 
Mary  in  Heaven.  They  buried  that  kind,  good  lady  by 
little  Mary's  side.  Now,  John,  what  do  you  think  made 
that  lady  love  Mary  so  well,  and  take  so  much  care  of 
her,  and  be  sorry  for  her  death  ?" 

John  does  not  know.  He  thinks  she  was  a  most  ex 
cellent  good  woman,  but  'tis  very  strange  she  should 
think  so  long  about  Mary  after  she  was  dead. 

"And  what  say  you,  Alf?" 

Alf  thinks  Mary  must  have  had  a  heap  of  money  or 
something  !  Or  else  he  don't  know  why  the  lady  should 
care  so  much  for  her. 

"  And  what  says  little  sis  to  it  ?" 

The  little  girl  has  a  big  tear  in  each  eye ;  ai  i  there 
is  a  track  down  each  cheek,  where  a  number  of  then? 


198  THE   WAT    MY   MITHER   BID    IT. 

have  chased  each  other.  She  glances  towards  her  mo« 
ther,  whose  eye  meets  hers,  as  if  there  was  a  mutual 
intelligence  between  them,  only  understood  by  the  female 
sex.  Then  looking  boldly  up  in  the  father's  face,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  could  solve  the  difficulty  with  ease, 
she  answered, 

"  'Twas  her  ma !  the  dear,  good  lady  was  her  ma!" 
And  sure  enough  little  pussy  guessed  it. 


THE  WAY  MY  MITHER  DID  IT. 

I  STEPPED  into  the  dining-room  the  other  day,  and 
found  my  nice  Scotch  help  arranging  the  delf  (as  she 
calls  it)  on  the  shelves  of  the  cupboard,  in  a  very  fanci 
ful  manner.  The  plates  all  turned  upon  their  edges 
against  the  back,  and  the  saucers  bottom  up,  with  each 
a  cup  upright,  and  a  spoon  inside. 

"Why,  Ann,"  I  exclaimed,  "don't  do  so;  I  don't 
like  it." 

"  It's  the  way  my  mither  did  it,  in  the  old  country, 
ina'am,  and  I  think  it's  so  pretty,"  she  replied,  with  an 
earnest  appealing  look,  and  the  tears  almost  starting 
from  her  eyes. 

"And  my  mother  taught  me  to  put  them  up  as  they 
were  arranged  before,"  said  I.  "  I  think  you  had  better 
replace  them." 

"  Just  as  ye  likes,"  was  her  answer,  in  a  subdued  and 
rather  disappointed,  tone — "just  as  ye  .likes.  Every- 


THE   WAY    MY    MITHER   DID   IT.  199 

bt-  \y  l)<es  the  ways  of  a  mither,  I'm  thinking;  and  be 
sure  jw  should  have  your  own  way  in  your  own  house." 
An  3  the  began  to  return  them  to  their  places  with  all 
possible  aespatch. 

I  saw  she  looked  hurt.  Old  memories  were  welling 
up  in  her  hea/t — old  memories  of  days  gone  by,  when 
in  her  native  land,  in  the  simple  cottage  beside  th& 
"  bonnie  Byr^e,"  she  had  made  the  most  of  her 
"mither's"  scaiwy  table  furniture. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  days  of  her  childhood — the 
mer»-y  days  amoutj  the  heather  and  the  blue-bells,  upon 
the  brae.  Of  Robin,  who  came  over  the  moor,  and  sat 
by  the  "  ingleside,"  of  a  winter  evening;  of  the  father, 
who  played  the  bagpipes,  and  the  mother,  the  good, 
loving  mother,  that, 

"  Wi'  her  needle  and  her  shears, 
Gars  auld  clothes  look  amaist  as  vreel  as  new." 

And  all  unconsciously,  perchance,  had  her  hands  piled 
up  the  delf,  in  fantastic  rows.  And  I  had  bade  her 
stop.  Already  I  was  sorry  for  the  order,  so  deep  and 
holy  a  feeling,  to  my  mind,  is  the  love  and  reverence  for 
a  mother. 

"Never  mind,  Ann,"  said  I;  "never  mind;  put 
them  up  to  suit  yourself,  to-day,  and  another  time  I  will 
have  them  my  way." 

"  Will  I,  then  ?"  said  she,  turning  to  me,  with  a  faco 
burning  with  smiles  and  thankfulness,  while  her  eyes 
were  almost  swimming  in  tears.  "  Will  I,  then  ?  All 
the  day  long,  as  I  go  there,  I'll  be  thinking  of  my 
mither,  and  I'll  work  all  the  better  for  ye,  for  thinking 


200  THE    WAY    MY    HITHER   DID    IT. 

of  her.  For  she  taught  me  many  a  lesson  to  be  true 
for  those  I  wrought  for.  It's  but  a  small  thing  to  bo 
sure,  but  it  does  my  heart  good,  now  and  then,  to  be 
following  her  ways.  For,  somehow,  I  think  that  she 
never  taught  me  a  wrong  thing." 

I  turned  away.  There  were  old  memories  tugging  at 
my  heart-strings,  too,  awakened  by  this  simple  incident, 
which  had  taught  me,  in  one  moment,  more  of  the  deep, 
earnest  nature  of  the  girl,  than  months  of  the  common 
round  of  daily  duty.  Who  that  has  had  a  mother,  gentle 
and  kind,  that  does  not  love,  now  and  then,  "  to  be  fol 
lowing  her  ways?" 

Had  I  sneered  at  those  ways,  and  touched  rudely  and 
roughly  that  vibrating  chord  of  affection,  would  Ann 
have  loved  me,  and  gone  on  with  a  cheerful,  willing 
heart  with  my  work  ?  Would  her  step  have  been  light, 
and  her  song  plaintive,  yet  cheerful,  through  all  the  day 
— if  I  had  crushed  those  upspringing  memories  of  a 
joyous  time,  by  forbidding  her  this  innocent  display  of 
individualism  ? 

Much  is  written,  and  much  more  talked,  of  the  worth- 
lessness  of  hired  girls.  And  how  shall  we  remedy  evils  ? 
is  the  question  everywhere  echoing  in  our  ears.  Much, 
too,  is  written  and  talked,  of  the  tyranny  and  harshness 
of  employers. 

There  is  wrong  on  both  sides.  There  are  many  very 
worthless  girls,  heartless  and  unfaithful.  Many  mis 
tresses  of  the  same  stamp.  But  there  are  those  who 
are  strong,  and  brave,  and  true ;  who,  though  circum 
stances  compel  them  to  fill  a  subordinate  position,  have 
hearts  and  minds  that  would  grace  any  station  in  life. 


THE    WAY    MY    MITHER    DID    IT.  201 

Whc  shall  measure  the  value  of  kindness  to  them  ?  The 
sympathetic  word  in  their  lonely  condition ;  the  smile 
of  encouragement ;  the  yielding,  now  and  then,  to  that 
earnest  feeling  of  spontaneity,  that  asks  an  utterance  in 
every  true  soul.  A  word,  a  look,  may  bind  them  to  us, 
and  make  them  fast  friends  in  our  hour  of  need.  Ay, 
lift  them  up — take  their  feet  from  the  miry  "  slough  of 
despond,"  and  place  them  upon  the  rock  of  patience 
and  forbearance,  and  send  them  onward  and  upward  in 
the  way  of  duty.  A  word,  and  a  look,  too,  may  utterly 
discourage  them,  by  tearing  away  the  delicate  tendrils 
of  hope  and  trust,  which  have  been  clinging  and  reach 
ing  upward  for  a  higher  and  better  life.  And  they  will 
fall  prostrate,  trailing  all  that  is  beautiful  in  their  natures 
among  the  noxious  weeds  at  their  feet,  with  no  hand  to 
lift  them  up,  no  heart  to  sympathize  with  their  earnest 
longing,  or  to  support  their  feeble  efforts. 

They  are  lost.  Lost  to  themselves,  to  goodness,  and 
to  God,  but  not  to  the  world  around  them.  For  while 
they  grovel,  so  surely  will  they  drag  others  down  to  a 
level  with  themselves,  and  society  in  generations  to  come, 
may  feel  through  its  members  the  wrong  done  by  a  word 
unfitly  spoken. 

]^o  single  class  of  persons  hold  the  comfort  of  families 
so  much  in  their  own  hands,  as  that  called  "  servant 
girls."  If  the  help  in  the  kitchen  is  out  of  tune,  there 
is  little  harmony  in  the  household.  A  little  patient 
kindness  may  make  all  sunshine ;  a  little  petulance, 
haughtiness,  pride  or  contempt,  may  make  all  storm  and 
darkness. 

Strive  encouragingly  to  cultivate  the  good  and  root 


202  DEATHS   OF   LITTLE    CHILDREN. 

out  the  evil.  Respect  tlieir  rights  as  you  would  have 
your  own  respected,  remembering  that  no  rights  are  so 
Bacred,  as  the  right  to  our  own  thoughts,  our  loves,  and 
our  own  sweet  memories,  shrined  away  in  our  holy  ot 
holies — the  heart,  where  no  stranger  can  enter  rudely, 
or  with  the  sneer  of  contempt,  and  not  raise  within  ua 
antagonism,  disgust,  or  dislike.  Their  sweet  and  plea 
sant  memories  are  as  dear  to  them  as  the  cherished  of 
our  own — and  which,  if  roughly  scoffed  aside,  simple 
though  they  may  be,  cause  them  to  feel  that  we  are 
enemies,  and  not  friends — spies  upon  their  inner  life, 
and  they  will  be  very  apt  to  treat  us  accordingly.  Oh ! 
there  are  rights  higher  and  holier  than  those  appertain 
ing  to  dollars  and  cents.  There  is  a  justice  which  is  not 
weighed  by  pounds  and  ounces,  or  measured  by  hours  or 
minutes.  .Thousands  may  be  just,  so  far  as  contract 
goes,  living  up  truly  to  its  very  article,  yet  each  and 
every  one  be  unjust  to  the  true  life,  unjust  to  all  the 
better  feelings  of  the  soul. 


DEATHS  OF  LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

A  GRECIAN  philosopher  being  asked  why  he  wept  for 
the  death  of  his  son,  since  the  sorrow  was  in  vain,  re 
plied,  "  I  weep  on  that  account."  And  his  answer  be 
came  his  wisdom.  It  is  only  for  sophists  to  contend 
that  we,  whose  eyes  contain  the  fountains  of  tears,  need 
never  give  way  to  them.  It  would  be  unwise  not  to  do 
BO  on  some  occasions.  Sorrow  unlocks  them  in  her 


DEATHS    OF   LITTLE    CHILDREN.  203 

balmy  moods.  The  first  bursts  may  be  bitter  and  over 
whelming  ;  but  the  soil  on  which  they  pour  would  be 
worse  without  them.  They  refresh  the  fever  of  the  soul 
— the  dry  misery  which  parches  the  countenance  into 
furrows,  and  renders  us  liable  to  our  most  terrible 
"flesh  quakes." 

There  are  sorrows,  it  is  true,  so  great  that  to  give 
them  some  of  the  ordinary  vents,  is  to  run  a  hazard  of 
being  overthrown.  These  we  must  rather  strengthen 
ourselves  to  resist,  or  bow  quietly  and  dryly  down,  in 
order' to  let  them  pass  over  us,  as  the  traveller  does  the 
wind  of  the  desert.  But  where  we  feel  that  teais  would 
relieve  us,  it  is  false  philosophy  to  deny  ourselves  at 
least  that  first  refreshment ;  and  it  is  always  false  conso 
lation  to  tell  people  that  because  they  cannot  help  a 
thing,  they  are  not  to  mind  it.  The  true  way  is  to  let 
them  grapple  with  the  unavoidable  sorrow,  and  try  to 
win  it  into  gentleness  by  a  reasonable  yielding.  There 
are  griefs  so  gentle  in  their  very  nature,  that  it  would 
be  worse  than  false  heroism  to  refuse  them  a  tear.  Of 
this  kind  are  the  deaths  of  infants.  Particular  circum 
stances  may  render  it  more  or  less  advisable  to  indulge 
in  grief  for  the  loss  of  a  little  child ;  but,  in  general, 
parents  should  be  no  more  advised  to  repress  their  first 
tears  on  such  an  occasion,  than  to  repress  their  smiles 
towards  a  child  surviving,  or  to  indulge  in  any  other 
sympathy.  It  is  an  appeal  to  the  same  gentle  tender 
ness  :  and  such  appeals  are  never  made  in  vain.  The 
end  of  them  is  an  acquittal  from  the  harsher  bonds  of 
affliction — from  the  tying  down  of  the  spirit  to  one  me- 
bncholy  idea. 


204  DEATHS   OF   LITTLE   CHILDREN. 

It  is  the  nature  of  tears  of  this  kind,  however  strongly 
they  may  gush  forth,  to  run  into  quiet  waters  at  last 
We  cannot  easily,  for  the  whole  course  of  our  lives, 
think  with  pain  of  any  good  and  kind  person  whom  we 
hi.ve  lost.  It  is  the  divine  nature  of  their  qualities  to 
conquer  pain  and  death  itself :  to  turn  the  memory  of 
them  into  pleasure ;  to  survive  with  a  placid  aspect  in 
our  imaginations.  We  are  writing  at  this  moment  just 
opposite  a  spot  which  contains  the  grave  of  one  inex 
pressibly  dear  to  us.  We  see  from  our  window  the  trees 
about  it,  and  the  church  spire.  The  green  fields  lie 
around.  The  clouds  are  travelling  overhead,  alternately 
taking  away  the  sunshine,  and  restoring  it.  The  vernal 
winds,  piping  of  the  flowery  summer-time,  are  neverthe 
less  calling  to  mind  the  far  distant  and  dangerous  ocean, 
which  the  heart  that  lies  in  that  grave  had  many  reasons 
to  think  of.  And  yet  the  sight  of  this  spot  does  not 
give  us  pain.  So  far  from  it,  it  is  the  existence  of  that 
grave  which  doubles  every  charm  of  the  spot;  which 
links  the  pleasures  of  our  childhood  and  manhood  toge 
ther  ;  which  puts  a  hushing  tenderness  in  the  winds,  and 
a  patient  joy  upon  the  landscape ;  which  seems  to  unite 
heaven  and  earth,  mortality  and  immortality,  the  grass 
of  the  tomb  and  the  grass  of  the  green  field :  and  gives 
a  more  maternal  aspect  to  the  whole  kindness  of  nature. 
It  does  not  hinder  gayety  itself.  Happiness  was  what 
its  tenant,  through  all  her  troubles,  would  have  diffused. 
To  diffuse  happiness,  and  to  enjoy  it,  is  not  only  carrying 
on  her  wishes,  but  realizing  her  hopes  ;  and  gayety,  freed 
from  its  only  pollutions,  malignity  and  want  of  sympa 
thy,  is  but  a  child  playing  about  the  knees  of  its  mother. 


DEATHS    OF   LITTLE   CHILDREN.  205 

The  remembered  innocence  and  endearments  of  a  child 
stand  us  in  stead  of  virtues  that  have  died  older.  Chil 
dren  have  not  exercised  the  voluntary  offices  of  friend 
ship  ;  they  have  not  chosen  to  be  kind  and  good  to  us, 
nor  stood  by  us  from  conscious  will  in  the  hour  of  ad 
versity.  But  they  have  shared  their  pleasures  and  pains 
with  us  as  well  as  they  could ;  the  interchange  of  good 
offices  between  us  has  of  necessity  been  less  mingled 
with  the  troubles  of  the  world ;  the  sorrow  arising  from 
their  death  is  the  only  one  which  we  can  associate  with 
their  memories.  These  are  happy  thoughts  that  cannot 
die.  Our  loss  may  always  render  them  pensive ;  but 
they  will  not  always  be  painful.  It  is  a  part  of  the 
benignity  of  Nature  that  pain  does  not  survive  like  plea 
sure,  at  any  time,  much  less  where  the  cause  of  it  is  an 
innocent  one.  The  smile  will  remain  reflected  by  me 
mory,  as  the  moon  reflects  the  light  upon  us  when  the 
sun  has  gone  into  heaven. 

When  writers  like  ourselves  quarrel  with  earthly  pain 
(we  mean  writers  of  the  same  intentions,  without  imply 
ing,  of  course,  anything  about  abilities  or  otherwise), 
they  are  misunderstood,  if  they  are  supposed  to  quarrel 
with  pains  of  every  sort.  This  would  be  idle  and  effemi 
nate.  They  do  not  pretend,  indeed,  that  humanity  iiaight 
not  wish,  if  it  could,  to  be  entirely  free  from  pain  :  for 
it  endeavours,  at  all  times,  to  turn  pain  into  pleasure, 
or  at  least  to  set  off  the  one  with  the  other,  to  make  the 
former  a  zest,  and  the  latter  a  refreshment.  The  most 
unaffected  dignity  of  suffering  does  this,  and  if  wise  ac 
knowledges  it.  The  greatest  benevolence  towards  others, 
the  most  unselfish  relish  of  their  pleasures,  even  at  its 


206  DEATHS   OF   LITTLE   CHILDREN. 

own  expense,  does  but  look  to  increasing  the  geneial 
stock  of  happiness,  though  content,  if  it  could,  to  have 
its  identity  swallowed  up  in  that  splendid  contemplation. 
We  are  far  from  meaning  that  this  is  to  be  called  selfish 
ness.  We  are  far,  indeed,  from  thinking  so,  or  of  so 
confounding  words.  But  neither  is  it  to  be  called  pain 
when  most  unselfish,  if  disinterestedness  be  truly  under 
Btood.  The  pain  that  is  in  it  softens  into  pleasure,  as 
the  darker  hue  of  the  rainbow  melts  into  the  brighter 
Yet  even  if  a  harsher  line  is  to  be  drawn  between  the 
pain  and  pleasure  of  the  most  unselfish  mind  (and  ill 
health,  for  instance,  may  draw  it),  we  should  not  quarrel 
with  it  if  it  contributed  to  the  general  mass  of  comfort, 
and  were  of  a  nature  which  general  kindliness  could  not 
avoid.  Made  as  we  are,  there  are  certain  pains,  with 
out  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  certain  great 
and  overbalancing  pleasures.  We  may  conceive  it  pos 
sible  for  beings  to  be  made  entirely,  happy ;  but  in  our 
composition  something  of  pain  seems  to  be  a  necessary 
ingredient,  in  order  that  the  materials  may  turn  to  as 
fine  account  as  possible,  though  our  clay,  in  the  course 
of  ages  and  experience,  may  be  refined  more  and  more. 
We  may  get  rid  of  the  worst  earth,  though  not  of  earth 
itself. 

Now  the  liability  to  the  loss  of  children — or  rather 
•what  renders  us  sensible  of  it,  the  occasional  loss  itself 
— seems  to  be  one  of  these  necessary  bitters  thrown  into 
the  cup  of  humanity.  We  do  not  mean  that  every  ono 
must  lose  one  of  his  children  in  order  to  enjoy  the  rest; 
or  that  every  individual  loss  afflicts  us  in  the  same  pro 
portion.  We  allude  to  the  deaths  of  infants  in  general. 


DEATHS   OF   LITTLE    CHILDREN.  207 

These  might  be  as  few  as  we  could  render  them.  But 
if  none  at  all  ever  took  place,  we  should  regard  every 
little  child  as  a  man  or  woman  secured ;  and  it  will 
easily  be  conceived  what  a  world  of  endearing  cares  and 
hopes  this  security  would  endanger.  The  very  idea  of 
infancy  would  lose  its  continuity  with  us.  Girls  and 
boys  would  be  future  men  and  women,  not  present  chil 
dren.  They  would  have  attained  their  full  growth  in 
our  imaginations,  and  might  as  well  have  been  men  and 
women  at  once.  On  the  other  hand,  those  who  have  lost 
an  infant  are  never,  as  it  were,  without  an  infant  child. 
They  are  the  only  persons  who,  in  one  sense,  retain  it 
always,  and  they  furnish  their  neighbours  with  the  same 
idea.  The  other  children  grow  up  to  manhood  and  wo 
manhood,  and  suffer  all  the  changes  of  mortality.  This 
one  alone  is  rendered  an  immortal  child.  Death  has 
arrested  it  with  his  kindly  harshness,  and  blessed  it  into 
an  eternal  image  of  youth  and  innocence. 

Of  such  as  these  are  the  pleasantest  shapes  that  visit 
our  fancy  and  hopes.  They  are  the  ever-smiling  em 
blems  of  joy ;  the  prettiest  pages  that  wait  upon  ima 
gination.  Lastly,  "  Of  these  are  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 
Wherever  there  is  a  province  of  that  benevolent  and  all- 
accessible  empire,  whether  on  earth  or  elsewhere,  such 
are  the  gentle  spirits  that  must  inhabit  it.  To  such  sim 
plicity,  or  the  resemblance  of  it,  must  they  come.  Such 
must  be  the  ready  confidence  of  their  hearts,  and  cre- 
ativeness  of  their  fancy.  And  so  ignorant  must  they  be 
of  the  "  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,"  losing  their  dis 
cernment  of  that  self-created  trouble,  by  enjoying  the 
garden  before  them,  and  not  being  ashamed  of  what  is 
kindly  and  innocent. 


A  HOME  FOR  MY  MOTHER. 

THE  following  interesting  narrative  of  one  of  those 
real  struggles  of  the  young  to  assist  their  parents,  which 
sparkle  like  diamonds  along  the  pathway  of  life,  is  taken 
from  a  paper  published  in  Wisconsin. 

Being  called,  says  the  narrator,  on  business  to  the 
United  States  "Land  Office,"  and,  while  there,  await 
ing  the  completion  of  my  business,  a  lad,  apparently 
about  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old,  came  in,  and  pre 
sented  to  the  receiver  a  certificate  of  purchase  for  forty 
acres  of  land.  I  was  struck  with  the  countenance  and 
general  appearance  of  the  lad,  and  inquired  of  him  for 
whom  he  was  purchasing  the  land. 

"For  myself,  sir,"  the  reply  was. 

I  then  inquired  where  he  got  the  money. 

"  I  earned  it  by  my  labour,"  he  answered. 

"  Then,"  said  I,  "you  richly  deserve  the  land." 

I  then  inquired,  "  Where  did  you  come  from  ?" 

"  New  York,"  said  he. 

Feeling  an  increased  desire  to  know  something  more 
of  this  lad,  I  asked  him  whether  he  had  parents,  and 
where  they  lived ;  on  this  question  he  took  a  seat  and 
gave  me  the  following  narrative  : — 

"  I  am  from  New  York  State — have  there  living  a 
father,  mother,  and  five  brothers  and  sisters.  I  am  the 
oldest  child.  Father  is  a  drinking  man,  and  often 
would  return  home  from  his  day's  work  drunk,  and  not 


A    HOME    FOR    MY    MOTHER.  209 

a  cent  in  his  pocket  to  buy  food  for  the  family,  having 
spent  all  his  day's  earnings  in  liquor  with  his  drinking 
companions  ;  the  family  had  to  depend  chiefly  on  mother 
and  myself  for  bread  ;  this  distressed  mother  much,  anl 
had  a  powerful  effect  on  my  feelings.  Finding  that 
father  would  not  abstain  from  liquor,  I  resolved  to  make 
an  effort  in  some  way  to  relieve  mother,  sisters,  and  bro 
thers  from  want.  After  revolving  things  over  in  my 
mind,  and  consulting  with  mother,  I  got  all  the  informa 
tion  I  could  about  the  Far  West,  and  started  for  Wis 
consin  with  three  dollars  in  my  pocket.  I  left  home  on 
foot.  After  spending  my  three  dollars,  I  worked  occa 
sionally  a  day,  and  renewed  my  travel  so  long  as  money 
lasted.  By  labour  occasionally,  and  the  charitable  treat 
ment  I  got  on  the  road,  I  landed  in  Wisconsin.  Here 
I  got  an  axe,  set  to  work,  and  cleared  land  by  the  job — 
earned  money,  saved  it,  till  I  gathered  $50,  which  mo 
ney  I  now  pay  for  the  forty  acres  of  land." 

"  Well,  my  good  lad  (for  by  this  time  I  became  much 
interested  in  his  story),  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
this  land?" 

"  Why,  sir,  I  will  continue  to  work  and  earn  money, 
and,  when  I  have  spare  time,  prepare  some  of  my  land 
for  culture,  raise  myself  a  log  house,  and,  when  prepared, 
will  write  father  and  mother,  brothers  and  sisters,  to 
come  to  Wisconsin  and  enjoy  this  home.  This  land,  now 
bought  by  me,  I  design  for  my  mother,  which  will  secure 
her  from  want  in  her  declining  years." 

"What,"  said  I,  "  will  you  do  with  your  father,  if  he 
continues  to  drink  ardent  spirits  to  excess?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  when  we  get  him  on  the  farm  he  will  feel  at 
14 


210  A  CHILD'S  FIRST  LETTER. 

home,  will  work  at  home,  will  keep  no  liquor  in  the  house, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  will  be  a  sober  man." 

By  this  time  the  receiver  handed  him  his  duplicate 
receipt  for  his  forty  acres  of  land.  Rising  from  his  seat 
on  leaving  the  office,  he  said,  "  At  last  I  have  a  home 
for  my  mother!" 


A  CHILD'S  FIRST  LETTER. 

To  write  to  papa,  'tis  an  enterprise  bold 
For  the  fairy-like  maiden  scarce  seven  years  old ; 
And  see !  what  excitement  the  purpose  hath  wrought 
In  eyes  that  when  gravest  seem  playing  at  thought. 

The  light  little  figure  surprised  into  rest — 
The  smiles  that  will  come  so  demurely  repressed — 
The  long-pausing  hand  on  the  paper  that  lies — 
The  sweet  puzzled  look  in  the  pretty  blue  eyes. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  picture  of  childhood  in  calm, 
One  cheek  swelling  soft  o'er  the  white  dimpled  palm 
Sunk  deep  in  its  crimson,  and  just  the  clear  tip 
Of  an  ivory  tooth  on  the  full  under-lip. 

How  the  smooth  forehead  knits !    With  her  arm  roui  .d  hit 

neck, 

It  were  easier  far  than  on  paper  to  speak ; 
We  must  loop  up  those  ringlets :  their  rich  falling  gold 
Would  blot  out  the  story  as  fast  as  'twas  told. 

And  she  meant  to  have  made  it  in  bed,  but  it  seems 
Sleep  melted  too  soon  all  her  thoughts  into  dreams ; 
But,  hush !  by  that  sudden  expansion  of  brow, 
Some  fairy  familiar  has  whispered  it  now. 


A  CHILD'S  FIRST  LETTER.  211 

How  she  labours  exactly  each  letter  to  sign, 
Goes  over  the  whole  at  the  end  of  each  line, 
And  lays  down  the  pen  to  clap  hands  with  delight, 
When  she  finds  an  idea  especially  bright. 

At  last  the  small  fingers  have  crept  to  an  end : 
No  statesman  his  letter  'twixt  nations  hath  penned 
With  more  sense  of  its  serious  importance,  and  few  • 
In  a  spirit  so  loving,  so  earnest,  and  true. 

She  smiles  at  that  feat  so  unwonted  and  grand, 
Draws  a  very  long  breath,  rubs  the  cramped  little  hand 
May  we  read  it  ?     Oh,  yes  ;  my  sweet  maiden,  maybe 
One  day  you  will  write  what  one  only  must  see. 

"  But  no  one  must  change  it !"     No,  truly,  it  ought 

To  keep  the  fresh  bloom  on  each  natural  thought. 

Who  would  shake  off  the  dew  to  the  rose-leaf  that  clings?-— 

Or  the  delicate  dust  from  the  butterfly's  wings  ? 

Is  it  surely  a  letter  ?     So  bashfully  lies 
Uncertainty  yet  in  those  beautiful  eyes, 
And  the  parted  lips'  coral  is  deepening  in  glow, 
And  the  eager  flush  mounts  to  the  forehead  of  snow. 

'Tis  informal  and  slightly  discursive,  we  fear ; 
Not  a  line  without  love,  but  the  love  is  sincere. 
Unchanged,  papa  said  he  would  have  it  depart, 
Like  a  bright  leaf  dropped  out  of  her  innocent  heart. 

Great  news  of  her  garden,  her  lamb  and  her  bird, 
Of  mamma,  and  of  baby's  last  wonderful  word ; 
With  an  ardent  assurance — they  neither  can  play, 
Nor  learn,  nor  be  happy,  while  he  is  away. 

Will  he  like  it  ?    Ay,  will  he !  what  letter  could  seem, 
Though  an  angel  indited,  so  charming  to  him? 


f!2  LITTLE   MOLLY. 

How  the  fortunate  poem  to  honour  vrc-uld  rise 
That  should  never  be  read  by  more  critical  eyes  I 
Ah,  would  for  poor  rhymesters  such  favour  could  bo 
As  waits,  my  fair  child,  on  thy  letter  and  thee ! 


LITTLE    MOLLY. 

THE  air  was  full  of  sweetness,  the  tall  spire  ol  the 
village  church  had  just  caught  the  last  rays  of  the  de- 
Bcending  sun,  crimsoning  its  glittering  vane  ;  while  in  the 
distance  the  forest  vista,  already  in  shadow,  was  lit  as 
by  enchantment ;  innumerable  fire-flies  were  there  dis 
porting  through  their  brilliant  voluptuous  life,  with  lus 
tre  ever  burning  brighter  as  darkness  deepened.  Within 
the  little  cottage  of  Jacob  Somers,  the  table  had  long 
been  spread  for  the  evening  meal ;  his  wife  Rachel  had 
displaced  and  re-arranged,  at  least  a  dozen  times,  the 
brown  loaf,  the  rich-looking  golden  cheese,  the  plate  of 
berries,  and  the  homely  milk-jug,  seeking  thus  to  wile 
away  the  time.  She  had  long  ended  her  household 
labours,  and  for  an  hour  and  more  had  been  anxiously 
awaiting  the  return  of  her  husband.  Again  she  took  a 
Beat  by  the  window,  and  pressing  aside  the  trailing 
jasmine  and  wild  rose,  which  afforded  so  fragrant  a 
shade  from  the  noontide  heat,  looked  eagerly  to  the  hill 
side,  the  path  whence  he  usually  returned.  Just  within 
eight  was  the  clear  lake,  so  replete  with  mournful  memo 
ries,  as  the  blinding  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  Jacob, 
with  heavy,  listless  step,  entered  the  r^->m ;  he  bore  the 


LITTLE    MOLLY.  213 

appearance  of  one  utterly  regardless  of  all  things ;  hia 
eye  was  dull  and  cold;  yet  there  was  a  contraction  of 
the  brow  that  spoke  of  pain,  and  it  might  be  bitter  grief. 
Carelessly  he  threw  his  coat  across  a  chair-back,  as  he 
took  a  seat  by  the  table.  No  change  of  countenance 
betokened  interest  or  affection,  as  he  replied  to  Rachel's 
kind  words  of  inquiry.  "  Yes,  the  oxen  had  been  long 
put  up ;  'twas  hours  since  he  had  worked."  Then,  as  if 
the  mere  utterance  of  these  few  words  were  painful,  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  taking  no  note  of  the  bowl 
of  milk  Rachel  had  pushed  towards  him.  A  moment 
passed ;  again  the  hands  were  withdrawn ;  while,  more 
from  habit  than  necessity,  he  commenced  eating  the 
bread  he  had  broken  into  the  milk.  A  large  Newfound 
land  dog  had  crept  to  his  feet,  and  now  sought  to  win  his 
attention ;  if  possible  to  engage  him  in  a  game  of  romps 
as  of  old ;  suddenly  Jacob  grasped  the  table  like  one 
in  a  fit,  whilst  closely,  shudderingly,  he  gazed  on  the 
dog.  Yes,  'twas  plain  enough,  he  held  in  his  teeth  a 
stocking — a  child's  stocking — the  sight  revived  all  his 
grief;  the  assumed  calmness  fled  ;  all  stoicism  was  gone ; 
with  each  sinew  strained,  each  feature  working  convul 
sively,  the  strong  man  flung  himself  on  the  floor,  writhing 
with  anguish. 

And  where  was  Molly  ?  the  farmer's  only  child — his 
little  darling — she  who  had  made  his  home  a  paradise, 
by  her  childish  prattle  and  endearing  ways — she  who 
had  ever  welcomed  him  with  kisses ;  the  hidden  pearl, 
that  made  a  blaze  of  glory  in  that  lowly  cot ;  the  little 
one,  who,  with  voice  so  sweet,  would  question  him  of 
Heaven,  till  he,  the  father,  had  learnt  of  his  child, 


214  LITTLE    MOLLY. 

"  Verily  of  babes  and  sucklings  hast  Thcu  perfected  Thy 
praise." 

Molly  had  been  drowned.  These  few  terrible  words 
comprised  an  eternity  of  agony.  Rachel's  memory  was 
no  less  fond.  Her  bosom  still  throbbed  with  the  pres 
sure  of  that  tiny  form  she  had  there  hushed  to  sleep  but 
se'nnight  a  week,  yet,  woman-like,  she  suppressed  her 
grief  to  comfort  the  heart  whose  sobs  were  so  despairing. 
No ;  she  had  not  forgotten  how  lifelike  looked  the  little 
one  on  her  funeral  couch — a  smile  playing  round  the 
dimpled  mouth ;  the  golden  curls  resting  on  the  fair 
cheek  ;  the  hands  folded  over  a  bunch  of  violets,  fitting 
emblem  of  such  purity  and  loveliness — all  seemed  more 
sleep  than  death.  Her  own  hands  had  arranged  the 
robe  worn  on  her  birthday  festival,  and  tied  up  the 
sleeves  with  blossom-coloured  bows ;  and  even  whilst 
thus  arraying  her  treasure  for  the  grave — whilst  her 
tears  fell  fastest — she  felt  that  "  God  loveth  whom  He 
chasteneth,"  striving  submissively  to  say,  "Not  my  will, 
but  Thine,  0  Lord  !  be  done  !" 

As  all  these  recollections  were  stirred  afresh  by  her 
husband's  outburst  of  sorrow,  a  shadow  seemed  to  fall 
from  her  gaze — her  duty  plainly  revealed  was  before 
her,  to  lead  Jacob's  mind  from  the  ghastliriess  and  ter 
ror  of  death,  which  now  oppressed,  to  the  hope  of  a  life 
eternal  which  comforted  her.  Kneeling,  she  raised  her 
husband's  face,  and  kissed  the  embrowned  forehead. 

"  Be  comforted,  Jacob,  and  turn  from  the  cold,  wan, 
dripping  form  which  memory  alone  presents  to  you  now, 
to  the  angel  in  the  bosom  of  God,  that  Molly  has  now 
pecome." 


LITTLE   MOLLY.  215 

Thus,  whh  \vords  of  grave  tenderness  and  simple 
teaching^,  she  strove  to  lead  his  mind  heavenward — to 
give  another  bend  to  the  images  fancy  presented.  Long 
it  was  before  the  farmer  could  find  consolation ;  long 
before  he  could  drive  away  the  torturing  thought  of  the 
loving  farewell  in  the  morn,  as  she  climbed  his  knee  and 
clung  to  his  neck,  with  the  painful  contrast  which  met 
him  on  his  return  at  eve — a  dripping,  lifeless  mass, 
drawn  from  the  lake  which  had  drunk  up  her  young  life, 
as  in  innocent  play  on  its  brink,  she  had  slipped  and 
fallen  in.  But  the  loving  wife  persevered,  telling  of  the 
free,  immortal  spirit,  that  had  exchanged  earth  for  the 
beauty  of  lieaven ;  that  death  Avas  not  a  dark  spectre, 
but  a  radiant  angel,  whose  embrace  had  imparted  peace 
everlasting.  An  unknown  calm  descended  on  the 
mourners,  and,  as  they  knelt  in  prayer,  their  spirits 
recognised  the  presence,  though  invisible  to  outward 
sense,  of  the  child  they  had  lost.  In  faith  they  beheld 
her  in  gorgeous  white  vesture,  with  star-crowned  head, 
leading  them,  with  tender  clasp,  upwards,  ever  upwards. 


FAREWELL  TO  A  SISTER. 

Go  fortVi  to  thine  appointed  rest, 

Beyond  the  broad  sea-foam  ; 
Go  forth,  our  fairest  and  our  best, 

To  thy  far  island-home  ! 
With  him,  thy  youthful  heart's  approved, 
Thy  mate  for  many  a  year  beloved ; 

In  thy  full  matron  bloom 
Go  forth,  to  act,  as  fate  commands, 
Thy  part  of  life  in  other  lands. 

Kind  thoughts  attend  thee,  from  the  pl*» 
Where  thou  hast  been  so  long 

A  daily  sight,  a  household  face, 
A  mate  in  work  and  song; 

A  flower  to  cheer,  a  lamp  to  shed 

Soft  light  beside  the  sick  one's  bed : 
To  that  beloved  throng 

Each  act  of  daily  life  shall  be 

A  mute  remembrancer  of  thee. 

Full  well  we  know,  where'er  thy  lot, 

Thou  canst  not  be  alone ; 
For  Love,  in  earth's  unkindliest  spot, 

Will  find,  or  make  its  own ; 
And  from  the  green  and  living  heart 
New  friendships  still,  like  buds,  will  start: 

But  yet,  wherever  thrown, 
No  ties  can  cling  around  thy  mind 
So  close  as  those  thou  leav'st  behind. 

And  oft,  while  gazing  on  the  sea 
That  girds  thy  lonely  isle, 


FAREWELL   TO   A   SISTER.  217 

Shall  faithful  memory  bring  to  thee 

The  home  so  loved  erewhile ; 
Its  lightsome  rooms,  its  pleasant  bowers, 
The  children,  that  like  opening  flowers 

Grew  up  beneath  thy  smile ; 
The  hearts  that  shared  from  earliest  years 
Thy  joys  and  griefs,  thy  hopes  and  fears. 

The  sister's  brow,  so  blithe  of  yore, 

With  early  care  imprest; 
And  she,  whose  failing  eyes  no  more 

Upon  her  child  may  rest ; 
And  kindred  forms,  and  they  who  eyed 
Thy  beauty  with  a  brother's  pride  ; 

And  friends  beloved  the  best, 
The  kind,  the  joyous,  the  sincere, 
Shall  to  thine  inward  sight  appear. 

And  they,  whose  dying  looks  on  thee 

In  grief  and  love  were  cast, — 
The  leaves  from  off  our  household  tree 

Swept  by  the  varying  blast, — 
Oft,  in  the  mystery  of  sleep, 
Shall  Love  evoke  them  from  the  deep 

Of  the  unfathomed  Past, 
And  Fancy  gather  round  thy  bed 
The  spirits  of  the  gentle  Dead. 

Farewell !  if  on  this  parting  day 

Remorseful  thoughts  invade 
One  heart,  for  blessings  cast  away. 

And  fondness  ill  repaid  ; 
lie  will  not  breathe  them — let  them  rest 
Within  the  stillness  of  the  breast ; 

Be  thy  remembrance  made 
A  home  where  chastening  thoughts  may  dwell ; 
My  own  true  sister,  fare  thee  well  1 


HEART-SHADOWS. 

Il  was  a  cold  night — quite  cold,  the  snow  fleecing 
down,  and  the  hail  rattling  against  the  windows.  The 
wild  storm-king  was  out  with  the  blast,  intent  on  mirth 
ful  mischief.  The  old  clock  ticked  cheerily,  and  the 
fitful  shadows  waved  unsteadily  on  the  wall.  The  win 
ter  was  without,  but  the  summer  of  peace  rested  in  my 
heart. 

I  sat  in  the  great  arm-chair,  in  the  fire-twilight,  alone, 
and  in  a  revery,  half  dreaming,  as  it  were,  my  past  life 
over  again.  The  golden  book  of  Memory  lay  unclasped 
before  me  —  every  thought,  every  feeling  of  by-gone 
hours  traced  ineffaceably  there.  All  sorrows,  all  joys, 
intermingling  and  forming  link  in  link,  a  beautiful 
chain,  without  which  life  would  be  incomplete.  We 
were  friends,  Alice  and  I,  early  friends  and  true  ones ; 
she  was  older  and  far  gentler,  with  mild,  loving  eyes, 
and  soft,  shadowy,  dark  hair.  I  was  young  and  thought 
less,  and  I  had  treasured  up  in  my  heart  an  idol,  one 
worshipped  and  adored.  I  dwelt  in  a  beautiful  dream, 
waking  and  sleeping,  and  my  guardian  spirit  was  ever 
Alice.  Alas  !  how  rudely  was  that  dream  broken  !  how 
inexpressibly  sad  the  knowledge  that  it  could  never  CDrae 
again  ;  and  yet  all  life  is  but  a  dream. 

Beautiful  in  soul  was  she,  and  they  called  her  Alice 
Faye,  but  to  me  she  was  only  Alice — darling  Alice. 
We  were  wandering,  two  hearts  in  one,  through  the 
beautiful  Present,  seeking  not  to  unveil  the  rugged 


HEART-SHADOWS.  219 

world  of  Futmity,  and  knowing  and  believing  that  to 
the  Past  were  confided  all  estimable  things. 

Oh,  our  Father !  Thou  who  knowest  the  frailty  of  all 
earth's  flowers,  lend,  oh !  lend  us  Thy  aid  to  withstand 
the  frosts  of  adversity,  the  chilly,  wintry  winds  that 
crush  the  already  bruised  and  broken  reed. 

How  vivid  is  that  memory  rising  before  me  now — the 
memory  ofv  our  parting !  It  was  a  beautiful,  radiant 
day,  late  in  the  summer.  Alice  and  I  had  been  in 
company  with  some  youthful  friends,  and  now,  arm-in 
arm,  were  returning  through  the  wood.  We  bent  our 
steps  towards  our  favourite  haunt — a  hushed,  sweet 
spot,  where  the  grass  grew  long  and  luxuriant,  and  the 
wild  vine  trailed  its  crimson  bloom-flowers,  dark,  yet 
bright  amid  the  flowers  that  begemmed  the  earth.  Our 
accustomed  seat  was  beside  a  shelving  rock,  overhung 
with  the  graceful  honeysuckle  and  clambering  roses,  its 
rude  face  half  hidden  by  the  beautiful  objects  clinging 
around  it.  The  wild  locust,  laden  with  its  pure  blos 
soms,  and  the  poplar,  silver-limbed,  threw  a  pleasant 
shade  over  it. 

Here,  the  earth  seemed  more  kind  and  smiling,  and, 
among  all  fond  memories,  this  is  to  me  the  holiest  and 
best  beloved. 

We  sat  silently — Alice's  hand  clasped  fast  in  mine, 
and  her  head  leaning  down  upon  my  shoulder  so  confid 
ingly,  so  caressingly.  The  sunlight  was  glimmering 
through  the  glossy  leaves,  and  the  rich  snowy  bl.qsspmjS 
of  the  locust  were  dropping  softly — softly  down  around 
us. 

I:  was  then  that  we  first  awakened  from  our  happy 


220  HEART-SHADOWS. 

dream-life — for  the  first  time  ventured  to  peep  into  the 
unknown  futurity.  I  felt  that  life  was,  indeed,  but  a 
"  walking  shadow,"  and  bursting  into  tears,  hid  my  face 
amid  Alice's  bright  tresses. 

"  Don't  cry,  Ruby,  darling,"  whispered  Alice,  very 
softly,  calling  me  by  an  endearing  name  of  childhood ; 
"  don't  cry,  it  will  not  be  for  a  long  time — not  very 
long." 

Her  own  voice  trembled  a  little,  although  she  tried 
hard  that  it  should  not. 

"Ah,  Alice,"  said  I,  sadly,  "a  dim  foreshadowing  of 
the  future  is  twining  itself  around  my  spirit — that  great 
future,  which  is  a  strange  world  to  us.  Perhaps  we  may 
never  meet  in  friendship  again,  Alice ;  perhaps  we  may 
doubt  each  other's  sincerity." 

"  No,  no,  Ruby,  dear  Ruby,"  replied  Alice,  Avinding 
her  arms  closer  around  me,  "we'll  never  doubt  each 
other.  Our  dearest  hopes  are  anchored  in  the  great 
sea  of  the  world  ;  but  they  will  remain  steadfast.  Oh  ! 
we'll  never  be  estranged,  Ruby." 

"Never!"  I  echoed,  and  yet,  through  the  mazes  of 
the  forest  there  seemed  to  float  a  voice,  strangely  mourn 
ful,  repeating  that  vow  of  eternal  friendship,  breathing 
a  warning  for  our  sanguine  hopes,  a  knell  for  our  part 
ing  hour. 

Alas !  how  slowly,  how  sadly  have  the  years  passed 
since  then,  for  doubt  and  mistrust  gliding  in,  severed 
that  sacred  chain  where  we  thought  it  was  the  strongest. 
We  met  again  in  after  years,  but  the  world — the  world 
had  taught  us  how  to  crush  the  wild,  wayward  throbbinga 
of  our  hearts.  We  were  living — and  yet  dead ;  living 


HEART-SHADOWS.  221 

as  the  breath  giveth  life ;  yet  dead  to  all  the  gentler 
influences,  the  holier  emotions  of  that  love  once  so  dear 
to  us.  And  the  youthful  years  that  had  shadowed  us 
so  kindly  with  their  wings,  withdrew  to  weep  over  the 

ashes  of  our  former  friendship. 

******** 

The  fire  was  gleaming  faintly  in  the  chimney,  my  re- 
very  was  over — and  yet  I  felt  so  sad,  so  lonely  sitting 
there.  I  thought  I  felt  a  soft  touch  upon  my  shoulder 
— heard  a  gentle  voice  whispering  a  name  of  other  years 
— Ruby  !  I  was  glad  some  one  had  said  it ;  it  was  a 
sweet  remembrance  in  a  time  of  sorrow.  Somebody 
whispered  loving  words,  somebody  knelt  beside  me  and 
pressed  a  soft  cheek  to  mine.  I  returned  the  pressure 
— I  wept,  yet  I  knew  not  why.  I  only  remember  that 
Alice  was  kneeling  there  beside  me,  my  own  Alice,  and 
that  we  were  friends  again. 

It  was  so  sweet,  so  strangely  sweet,  to  have  her  there 
as  of  old,  the  same  love-light  in  those  kindly  eyes,  the 
same  holy  beauty  resting  on  that  placid  brow ;  I  fancied 
that  it  was  all  a  dream,  and  I  dared  not  move,  lest  the 
entrancing  spell  should  break. 

That  joyful  meeting  is  marked  for  ever  with  a  "morn' 
ing  star"  in  the  heaven  of  my  existence.  And  now, 
e;ich  budding  hope,  each  undefined  fear,  give  I  hence 
forth  to  the  sacred  keeping  of  our  Father,  our  Protector, 
and  our  God. 

In  the  hushed  and  holy  stillness  of  the  night,  when 
the  stars  and  flowers  keep  watch  over  earth,  and  every 
soul  ascends  on  trembling  wings  to  the  throne  of  Him 


222  THE   DUMB   CHILD. 

above,  I  fall  asleep  quietly  to  dream  of  the  angels  and 
of  Alice  Faye. 

Even  so  hath  He  ordained,  that  we  shall  give  a  etnile 
for  every  new  sunbeam  born  to  the  earth,  a  tear  for 
every  blossom  untimely  withered. 

For  every  heart  hath  a  sunlight,  every  soul  a  shadow. 


THE   DUMB    CHILD. 

SHE  is  my  only  girl : 

I  asked  for  her  as  some  most  precious  thing; 
For  all  unfinished  was  Love's  jewelled  ring, 

Till  set  with  this  soft  pearl ; 

The  shade  that  time  brought  forth  I  could  not  see; 
How  pure,  how  perfect  seemed  the  gift  to  me  1 

Oh,  ninny  a  soft  old  tune 
I  used  to  sing  unto  that  deadened  ear, 
And  suffered  nut  the  lightest  footstep  near 

Lest  she  might  wake  too  soon  ; 
And  hushed  her  brother's  laughter  while  she  lay— 
Ah,  needless  care  !     I  might  have  let  them  play  \ 

'Twas  long  ere  I  believed 

That  this  one  daughter  might  not  speak  to  me  ; 
Waited  and  watched,  God  knows  how  patiently ! 

How  willingly  deceived: 

Vain  Love  was  long  the  untiring  nurse  of  Faith, 
And  tended  Hope  until  it  starved  to  death. 

Oh  !  if  she  could  but  hear 

For  one  short  hour,  till  I  her  tongue  m'.ght  teach 
To  call  me  mother,  in  the  broken  speech 


THE   DUMB   CHILD.  223 

That  thrills  the  mother's  ear ! 
Alas !  those  sealed  lips  never  may  be  stirred 
To  the  deep  music  of  that  lovely  word. 

My  heart  it  sorely  tries 
To  see  her  kneel,  with  such  a  reverent  air, 
Beside  her  brothers  at  their  evening  prayer  ; 

Or  lift  those  earnest  eyes 

To  watch  our  lips,  as  though  our  words  she  knew,—; 
Then  moves  her  own,  as  she  were  speaking  too. 

I've  watched  her  looking  up 
To  the  bright  wonder  of  a  sunset  sky, 
With  such  a  depth  of  meaning  in  her  eye, 

That  I  could  almost  hope 

The  struggling  soul  would  burst  its  binding  cords, 
And  the  long  pent-up  thoughts  flow  forth  in  words 

The  song  of  bird  and  bee, 
The  chorus  of  the  breezes,  streams  and  groves, 
All  the  grand  music  to  which  nature  moves, 

Are  wasted  melody 

To  her;  the  world  of  sound  a  tuneless  void; 
While  even  Silence  hath  its  charm  destroyed. 

Her  face  is  very  fair 
Her  blue  eye  beautiful ;  of  finest  mould 
The  soft  white  brow,  o'er  which,  in  waves  of  gold, 

Ripples  her  shining  hair. 
Alas !  this  lovely  temple  closed  must  be, 
For  He  who  made  it  keeps  the  master-key. 

Wills  He  the  mind  within 

Should  from  earth's  Babel-clamour  be  kept  free, 
E'en  that  His  still  small  voice  and  step  might  be 

Heard  at  its  inner  shrine, 

Through  that  deep  hush  of  soul,  with  clearer  thrill  f 
Then  should  I  grieve  ?     0  murmuring  heart,  be  still ! 


224  THE   DUMB   CHILD. 

She  seems  to  have  a  sense 
Of  quiet  gladness  in  her  noisoless  play. 
She  hath  a  pleasant  smile,  a  gentle  way, 

Whose  voiceless  eloquence 
Touches  all  hearts,  though  I  had  once  the  fear 
That  even  her  father  would  not  care  for  her. 

Thank  God  it  is  not  so  ! 
And  when  his  sons  are  playing  merrily, 
She  comes  and  leans  her  head  upon  his  knee. 

Oh  !  at  such  times  I  know — 
By  his  full  eye  and  tones  subdued  and  mild- 
How  his  heart  yearns  over  his  silent  child. 

Not  of  all  gifts  bereft, 

Even  now.     How  could  I  say  she  did  not  speakf 
What  real  language  lights  her  eye  and  cheek, 

And  renders  thanks  to  Him  who  left 
Unto  her  soul  yet  open  avenues 
For  joy  to  enter,  and  for  love  to  use. 

And  God  in  love  doth  give 
To  her  defect  a  beauty  of  its  own. 
And  we  a  deeper  tenderness  have  known 

Through  that  for  which  we  grieve. 
5fet  shall  the  seal  be  melted  from  her  ear, 
Yoa,  and  my  voice  shall  fill  it — but  not  here. 

When  that  new  sense  is  given, 
What  rapturs  will  its  first  experience  be, 
That  never  woke  to  meaner  melody 

Than  the  rich  songs  of  heaven, — 
To  hear  the  full-toned  anthem  swelling  round, 
\V  hile  angels  teach  the  ecstasies  of  souud  1 


A  SCENE  FROM  REAL  LIFE. 

"MY  wife  feels  as  though  she  were  labouring  very 
hard  for  the  benefit  of  others." 

This  was  spoken  by  a  man  who  considered  himself  a 
good  husband  ;  but  if  he  had  been  one  in  reality,  wouli 
his  wife  have  been  troubled  with  such  feelings  ? 

Let  us  consider  the  subject,  and  take  an  occurrence 
from  every-day  life,  to  illustrate  it. 

Mr.  B arises  in  the  morning  with  the  intention 

"f  going  to  the  city,  a  distance  of  twenty  miles,  and 
back  the  same  day.  In  his  haste  to  be  gone,  he  does 
not  observe  that  his  wife  is  paler  than  usual.  Her  health 
has  been  poor  for  a  long  time,  and  her  altered  appear 
ance  now  is  not  even  noticed.  Although  they  are  in 
comfortable  circumstances,  yet  neither  feel  able  to  keep 
hired  help.  As  the  husband  loves  neatness  and  order, 
for  which  the  wife  is  remarkable,  the  latter  determines 
that  her  washing  shall  be  done  in  his  absence.  But 
many  things  arise  to  hinder — the  wood  is  poor,  and  will 
not  burn — the  babe  requires  more  care  than  usual.  The 
sun  has  passed  the  meridian,  and  is  hastening  on  his 
daily  course ;  but  her  work  is  not  half  done.  She  toils 
on  with  an  energy  beyond  her  strength,  hoping  all  will 
yet  be  well.  She  pictures  to  herself  the  children,  quietly 
Bleeping  in  their  snug  little  bed,  the  floor  mopped,  the 
fire  bright  and  cheerful,  the  table  spread  with  its  snowy 
cloth,  and  her  husband's  favourite  dish  prepared,  ere  his 
leturn. 

15 


226  A   SCEN1!   FROM   REAL   LIFE. 

But,  alas !  bright  anticipations  vanish ;  the  day  is 
past,  and  "  evening  shades  appear  ;"  the  habe  becomes 
more  troublesome,  and  now  takes  all  the  mother's  time. 
She  has  nearly  succeeded  in  quieting  it,  when  she  hears 
the  well-known  step  on  the  threshold  ;  her  husband 
enters ;  he  sees  the  unfinished  washing,  with  all  its  accom 
paniments  of  tubs  and  pails  ;  the  fire  is  nearly  gone  out, 
and  his  little  boy,  two  years  old,  is  splashing  water  from 

one  thing  to  another,  in  great  glee.  Mr.  B seizes 

the  child,  and  places  him  in  a  chair  in  the  corner,  with 
so  much  violence  that  the  room  quickly  resounds  with 
his  screams.  He  then  whips  him  to  still  his  cries,  that 
his  own  voice  may  be  heard.  Every  blow  pierces  the 
mother's  heart,  but  she  knows  remonstrance  is  vain,  and 
lets  things  take  their  course,  in  silence. 

Her  turn  comes  next,  and  he  can  hardly  find  words 
strong  enough  to  express  his  indignation  ;  among  many 
other  things,  he  tells  her  she  never  has  anything  in 
order ;  he  never  knew  her  to  have  a  fire,  or  a  meal  of 
victuals,  in  season. 

By  this  time  the  babe  was  fairly  aroused,  and  it  need 
ed  considerable  exertion  to  hush  its  plaintive  cries  ;  but 
by  carrying  it  about  in  her  arms,  the  mother  was  at  last 
triumphant. 

She  next  prepared  their  evening  meal  with  as  much 
alacrity  as  exhausted  nature  would  allow  ;  and,  as  her 
husband  sipped  his  tea,  and  enjoyed  the  genial  warmth 
of  the  fire,  the  irritability  of  his  temper  passed  off,  and 
with  it  all  thoughts  of  the  late  unhappy  occurrence.  He 
soon  retired  to  rest,  and  in  refreshing  sleep  forgot  the 
toils  of  the  day.  His  wife  had  now  her  washing  to 


A    SCENE   FROM    REAL   LIFE.  22"< 

finish,  and  everything  tc  put  in  its  place,  even  to  hei 
husband's  bootjack ;  for,  with  all  his  love  of  order,  he 
frequently  forgets  to  put  up  his  own  things.  When  she 
had  accomplished  all,  she,  too,  retired  to  rest,  but  not  to 
Bleep — no :  every  nerve  was  unstrung ;  and  as  she  laid 
her  throbbing  head  on  its  pillow,  and  vainly  attempted 
to  sleep,  the  events  of  the  day  would  crowd  themselves 
into  her  mind.  Yet  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  think 
unkindly  of  her  husband.  She  tried  to  reason  thus — • 
"  Have  I  not  a  good  husband  ?  Does  he  not  provide 
for  my  actual  wants,  according  to  the  best  of  his  abi- 
lity?" 

But,  notwithstanding  all  her  endeavours,  the  cruel 
words  which  had  been  uttered  by  him  in  wrath,  would 
rush  into  her  mind,  like  unbidden  guests,  until  tears  be 
gan  to  flow  in  profusion,  and  memory  became  busy. 
Then  she  thought  of  the  happy  home  of  her  girlhood, 
of  the  mother  that  watched  over  her,  of  the  days  when 
the  rose  of  health  bloomed  on  her  cheek,  and  her  brow 
was  unclouded  by  care.  But,  most  of  all,  her  memory 
reverted  to  the  bridal  day,  when  her  lover  promised,  in 
presence  of  God  and  man,  to  love,  cherish,  and  protect, 
until  death  should  them  part.  She  asked  herself  if  she 
had  ever  been  unfaithful  to  the  marriage  vow ;  conscience 
answered  no  ;  had  she  not  studied  her  husband's  happi 
ness  with  untiring  zeal,  until  self  was  all  forgotten,  health 
gone,  constitution  enfeebled  ?  And  now,  as  she  felt  her 
self  less  able  to  perform  the  duties  required  of  her,  she 
felt  that  her  love  had  been  ill  repaid.  Thus,  after  a 
day  of  overtasked  labour,  and  nearly  a  night  spent  in 
tears,  the  wife  sunk  into  an  uneasy  slumber,  to  be  dis- 


228  A    SCENE   FROM    REAL   LIFE. 

turbed  at  intervals  by  her  babe,  until  the  dawn  of  an 
other  day,  when  the  well-rested  husband  called  upon  hia 
wife  to  rise,  not  doubting  that  she  was  as  much  refreshed 
as  himself. 

Now,  what  had  that  husband  gained  by  all  this  ?  Had 
not  his  wife  done  her  best,  and  what  could  she  do  more  ? 
It  is  true,  he  knew  not  of  her  grief  and  tears;  he  know 
hot  that  such  treatment  was  hastening  her  to  the  grave ; 
as  she  daily  sunk  under  the  accumulated  weight  of  care, 
he  knew  not  that  the  cause  was  in  any  way  attributable 
to  himself. 

Yet  it  would  have  required  but  little  forbearance  oji 
his  part  to  have  spoken  a  kind  word,  or  sympathized 
with  her  a  little.  She  would  then  have  performed  the 
same  duties  with  cheerfulness,  and  considered  herself 
happy  in  the  possession  of  such  a  husband.  And  when 
her  head  rested  on  its  pillow,  and  she  strove  to  hush  its 
throbbings,  no  images  but  such  as  affection  brings  would 
have  haunted  her  imagination;  and  her  slumbers  would 
soon  have  been  as  calm  as  those  of  the  loved  ones  beside 
her. 

If  any  man  who  has  a  care-worn  wife,  chance  to  read 
this  article,  let  him  look  well  to  the  subject ;  and,  if  he 
wishes  to  be  met  with  a  smile  or  look  of  happiness,  let 
him  strive  by  his  own  example  to  sow  the  good  seeds  of 
affection,  and  he  will  be  sure  to  reap  an  abundant  bar 
vest,  for  "virtue  is  its  own  reward." 


THE   FIRST   BABY. 

MY  old  schoolfellow,  Mary  Thornly,  had  been  married 
nearly  two  years  when  I  made  my  first  call  on  her  in 
her  capacity  of  a  mother. 

"Did  ywu  ever  see  such  a  darling ?"  she  exclaimed, 
tossing  the  infant  up  and  down  in  her  arms.  "  There, 
baby,  that's  ma's  old  friend,  Jane.  He  knows  you  al 
ready,  I  declare,"  said  the  delighted  parent,  as  it  smiled 
at  a  bright  ring  which  I  held  up  to  it.  "  You  never 
saw  such  a  quick  child.  He  follows  me  with  his  eyea 
all  about  the  room.  Notice  what  pretty  little  feet  he 
has,  the  darling  footsy-tootsies  !"  and  taking  both  feet 
in  one  hand,  the  mother  fondly'kissed  them. 

"  It  certainly  is  very  pretty,"  said  I,  trying  to  be 
polite,  though  I  could  not  perceive  that  the  infant  was 
more  beautiful  than  a  dozen  others  I  had  seen.  "  It  has 
your  eyes  exactly,  Mary." 

"Yes,  and  da-da's  mouth  and  chin,"  said  my  friend, 
apostrophizing  the  child,  "hasn't  it,  precious?"  And 
she  almost  smothered  it  with  kisses. 

As  I  walked  slowly  homeward,  I  said  to  myself,  "  I 
wonder  if,  when  I  marry,  I  shall  ever  be  so  foolish  ? 
Mary  used  to  be  a  sensible  girl."  In  a  fortnight  after- 
war  ;ls  I  called  on  my  friend  again. 

"How  baby  grows !"  she  said;  "don't  you  see  it? 
I  never  knew  a  child  grow  so  fast.  Grandma  says  it's 
the  healthiest  child  she  ever  knew." 

To  me  it  seemed  that  the  babe  had  not  grown  an  inch , 


230  THE    FIRST    BABY. 

and  to  avoid  the  contradiction,  I  changed  the  theme. 
But,  in  a  moment,  the  doting  mother  was  back  to  her 
infant  again. 

"  I  do  believe  it's  beginning  to  cut  its  teeth,"  she  said, 
putting  her  finger  into  the  little  one's  mouth.  "  Just 
feel  how  hard  the  gum  is  there.  Surely  that's  a  tooth 
coming  through.  Grandmother  will  be  here  to-day,  and 
I'll  ask  her  if  it  isn't  so." 

I  laughed,  as  I  replied,  "  I  am  entirely  ignorant  of 
such  matters ;  but  your  child  really  seems  a  very  fine 
one." 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  everybody  says  that.  Pretty,  pretty 
dear !"  And  she  tossed  it  up  and  down,  till  I  thought 
the  child  would  have  been  shaken  to  pieces  ;  but  the 
little  creature  seemed  to  like  the  process  very  much. 
"  Is  it  crowing  at  its  'mother  ?  It's  laughing,  is  it ! 
Tiny,  niny,  little  dear.  What  a  sweet  precious  it  is !" 
Arid  she  finished  by  almost  devouring  it  with  kisses. 

When  I  next  called,  the  baby  was  still  further  ad 
vanced. 

"  Only  think,"  said  my  friend,  when  I  had  made  my 
way  to  the  nursery,  where  she  now  kept  herself  from 
morning  till  night,  "  baby  begins  to  eat.  I  gave  it  a 
piece  of  meat  to-day — a  bit  of  real  broiled  beefsteak  !" 

"  What !"  said  I,  in  my  ignorance,  for  this  did  look 
wonderful,  "the  child  eating  beefsteak  already?" 

"  Oh,"  laughed  my  friend,  seeing  my  mistake,  "  what 
a  sad  dunce  you  arc,  Jane  !  But  wait  till  you  have 
babies  of  your  own.  She  says  you  eat  beefsteak,  dar 
ling,"  added  the  proud  mother,  addressing  the  infant, 
"whon  you  only  suck  the  juice.  You  don't  want  te 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


THE   FIRST   BABY.  231 

choke  yourself,  do  you,  baby  ?  Eat  a  beefsteak  !  It'a 
funny,  baby,  isn't  it?"  And  again  she  laughed — laugh 
ing  all  the  more  because  the  child  sympathetically  crowed 
in  return.  . 

It  was  not  many  weeks  before  the  long-expected  teeth 
really  appeared. 

"  Jane,  Jane,  baby  has  three  teeth !"  triumphantly 
cried  the  mother,  as  I  entered  the  nursery.  "  Three 
teeth,  and  he's  only  nine  months  old !  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  the  like?" 

I  confessed  that  I  had  not.  The  whole  thing,  in  fact, 
was  out  of  my  range  of  knowledge.  I  knew  all  about 
Dante  in  the  original,  and  a  dozen  other  fine-lady  ac 
complishments  ;  but  nothing  about  babies  teething. 

"Just  look  at  the  little  pearls  !"  exclaimed  my  friend, 
as  she  opened  the  child's  mouth.  "  Are  they  not  beau 
tiful  ?  You  never  saw  anything  so  pretty — confess  that 
you  never  did.  Precious  darling,"  continued  the  mo 
ther,  rapturously  hugging  and  kissing  the  child,  "it  is 
wprth  its  weight  in  gold  !" 

But  the  crowning  miracle  of  all  was  when  "baby" 
began  to  walk.  Its  learning  to  creep  had  been  duly 
heralded  to  me.  So  also  had  its  being  able  to  stand 
alone ;  though  this  meant,  I  found,  standing  with  the 
support  of  a  chair.  But  when  it  really  walked  alone, 
the  important  fact  was  announced  to  me  in  a  note,  for 
my  good  friend  could  not  wait  till  I  called. 

"  Stand  there,"  she  said  to  me  in  an  exulting  voice. 
"No,  stoop,  I  mean  ;  how  can  you  be  so  stupid  ?"  And, 
as  I  obeyed,  she  took  her  station  about,  a  yard  off,  hold 
ing  the  little  one  by  either  arm.  "  Now,  see  him,"  she 


232  THE    FIRST    BABY. 

cried,  as  lie  toddled  towards  me,  and  finally  succeeued 
in  gaining  my  arms,  though  once  or  twice  I  fancied  he 
would  fall,  a  contingency  from  which  he  was  protected, 
however,  by  his  mother  holding  her  hands  on  either  sido 
of  him,  an  inch  or  two  off.  *'  There,  did  you  ever  see 
anything  so  extraordinary  ?  He's  not  a  year  old, 
either." 

By  this  time  I  began  to  be  considerably  interested  in 
•'  baby"  myself.  He  had  learned  to  know  me,  and  would 
begin  to  crow  whenever  I  entered  the  nursery ;  and  ] 
was,  therefore,  almost  as  delighted  as  my  friend,  when. 
for  the  first  time,  he  pronounced  my  name.  "  Djane,'' 
he  said,  "  Djane  !" 

His  mother  almost  devoured  him  with  kisses  in  return 
for  this  wonderful  triumph  of  the  vocal  organs  ;  and 
when  she  had  finished,  I,  in  turn,  smothered  him  with 
caresses. 

I  never  after  that  smiled,  even  to  myself,  at  the  ex 
travagance  of  my  friend's  affection  for  her  baby  ;  the 
little  love  had  twined  himself  around  my  own  heart 
strings.  How  could  I  ? 

And  now  that  I  am  a  mother  myself,  I  feel  less  incli 
nation  still  to  laugh,  as  others  may  do,  over  that  mys 
tery  )f  mysteries — a  mother's  love  for  her  baby. 


HOME  LIGHTS  AND  HOME  SHADOWS. 

"  WHAT  a  quiet  man  Mr.  Mason  is.  and  what  nice 
children  he  has!  I  never  hear  any  noise  when  I  go 
there." 

What  strange  notions  people  have  of  nice,  quiet  peo 
ple  !  thought  I,  as  I  heard  the  foregoing  observation  from 
a  man,  whose  kindly  disposition  and  cheerful  face  were 
a  perfect  preventive  of  the  quiet,  nice  order  that  reigned 
in  Mr.  Mason's  house.  When  he  came  home,  the  cheer 
ful  smile  on  his  lip,  the  kind  inquiry,  or  some  pleasantly 
related  piece  of  news,  set  all  the  lips  to  smiling,  and  all 
the  tongues  to  talking  around  his  table ;  and  the  very 
noise  he  seemed  to  have  deprecated,  was  the  music  to 
which  his  life  was  happily  gliding  on,  of  which  he  him 
self  was  the  key-note — a  perfect  contrast  to  the  gloomy 
order  that  reigned  in  the  house  of  the  quiet  Mr.  Mason. 

I  will  give  you  a  short  sketch  of  this  gentleman.  He 
was,  in  the  estimation  of  the  world,  and  his  own  also, 
one  of  the  best  of  men.  By  careful  industry,  he  had 
acquired  some  property,  among  which  was  a  nice  dwelling, 
wherein  his  mother,  himself,  and  only  sister  lived.  As 
his  means  increased,  he  furnished  it  very  nicely.  Ilia 
mother  was  very  industrious,  and  his  sister  very  tasty  ; 
and  many  inventions  of  their  needles  gave  an  air  of 
elegance  to  what,  in  other  hands,  would  have  appeared 
plain.  In  the  course  of  time,  the  mother  died.  I  for 
got  to  say,  that,  although  Mr.  Mason  was  always  spoken 
of  as  one  of  the  best  of  sons  and  brothers,  the  family 


234  HOME   LIGHTS   AND   HOME    SHADOWS. 

always  appeared  uneasy  until  his  opinion  of  what  they 
may  have  done  was  known.  When  it  was  asked  if  he 
did  not  disapprove,  they  inferred  it  pleased  him,  for  "he 
was  one  that  never  praised."  "  It  will  do  well  enough," 
vas  the  wannest  encomium  he  ever  used.  The  brothei 
and  sister  were  left  together.  Poor  girl !  her  mother 
had  been  her  only  companion — her  brother  had  never 
seemed  to  care  for  society.  Of  a  warm,  cheerful  temper, 
and  with  ardent  affections,  her  whole  heart  now  turned 
to  her  brother ;  and  he,  tender  from  grief  for  the  loss 
of  his  mother,  seemed  to  throw  off  for  awhile  that  cold 
quietness,  that  is  more  depressing  to  an  affectionate  dis 
position  than  active  unkindness.  When  he  came  home, 
he  would  tell  her  of  some  of  the  doings  of  the  world  in 
•which  he  mixed,  and  of  which  she  only  knew  the  exte 
rior.  Again  the  colour  came  to  her  cheek,  and  her 
buoyant  laugh  had  something  like  the  merry  ring  it 
used  to  have  in  her  mother's  lifetime.  Occasionally  it 
appeared  to  startle  her  brother ;  but  he  thought  of  the 
many  hours  she  had  been  alone,  and  he  could  not  find  it 
in  his  heart  to  reprove  her. 

But  soon  the  old  habit  of  fault-finding  returned.  Any 
thing  that  did  not  exactly  suit  him,  was  sure  to  render  him 
cold  and  silent ;  and  often  a  meal  passed  without  any 
thing  but  monosyllables.  If  she  would  try  to  entertain 
him  with  any  little  incident  that  came  under  her  obser 
vation,  "  He  took  no  interest  in  such  trifles."  Her 
joyous  laugh  was  repressed  with  the  observation,  "  That 
it  was  too  boisterous ;  the  neighbours  would  hear  her." 
The  house  was  soon  quiet  enough  after  that.  Alone, 
without  any  one  to  speak  to,  while  her  brother  was  at 


HOME   LIGHTS   AND   HOME   SHADOWS.  235 

his  business,  you  would  not  have  known  when  he  was  at 
home,  from  any  signs  of  life  that  were  about  the  house. 

I  loved  Betty  Mason,  and  could  not  help  pitying  the 
orphan  girl,  for  I  knew  how  truly  her  mother  had  been 
"  all  the  world  to  her  ;"  and  I  often  took  my  sewing  and 
went  in  to  sit  with  her.  I  knew  she  was  devotedly 
attached  to  her  brother,  and  therefore  did  not  think  it 
strange  she  should  be  so  anxious  that  everything  she  did 
should  please  him.  But  one  thing  puzzled  me,  and  that 
was,  that  she  appeared  to  be  far  more  cheerful  for  two 
or  three  months  after  her  mother's  death,  than  after 
wards.  She  appeared  more  depressed,  and  complained 
more  of  her  loss,  when  from  the  time  that  had  elapsed, 
she  woufd  have  become  reconciled  to  it.  I  soon  pene 
trated  the  secret,  for  I  found,  that  in  her  brother's 
presence  she  was  not  the  same  impulsive,  warm  being, 
but  acted  with  a  precision  and  quietness  that  was  not 
natural  to  her  character :  and,  when  on  the  plea  that 
she  thought  she  ought  not  to  be  a  burden  to  her  brother, 
she  told  me  she  was  going  to  accept  a  situation  in  a  fine 
school,  I  admired  the  good  sense  and  independence  of 
my  friend. 

I  asked  her  brother  what  he  thought  of  Betty's  plan. 
Tie  said  he  "  saw  no  necessity  for  her  doing  anything 
for  a  living ;  but  she  was  her  own  mistress ;  she  could 
do  what  she  pleased."  My  cheeks  burned  at  the  cold 
indifference  of  this  speech.  I  knew  that  with  one-quarter 
the  physical,  and  only  healthful  mental  exertion,  she  waa 
going  to  obtain  a  genteel  independence.  She  would  be 
absent  from  home  from  Monday  till  Friday.  She  left 
the  house  in  the  charge  of  a  good  servant,  and  once  a 


236  HOME   LIGHTS   AND    HOME    SHADOWS. 

week  gave  it  a  good  regulating.  She  soon  recovered 
the  tone  of  her  spirits ;  and  her  brother,  who  really 
missed  her  presence,  was  too  glad  of  her  weekly  return, 
to  find  fault  with  her  now  buoyant  spirits,  for,  like  most 
persons  of  a  peevish,  fault-finding  disposition,  he  was 
rather  wavering;  and  her  decision  of  character,  now 
fully  developed  by  intercourse  with  the  world,  and  a 
sense  of  independence,  overruled  his  foolish  notions,  and 
compelled  him  to  be  happier  than  he  ever  was. 

But  such  a  girl  as  Betty  Mason  was  not  born  to 
"blush  unseen;"  and  a  fine  man  of  congenial  character 
sought  and  won  her.  George  Edgar  it  was,  who,  at  the 
beginning  of  our  story,  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to 
his  quiet  brother-in-law's,  and  was  so  much  admiring  the 
quietness  of  his  household. 

After  Betty's  marriage,  Edward  Mason  had  married 
a  gentle,  timid  girl,  and  thought  he  would  be  very  happy  ; 
but  his  querulous  disposition,  and  the  habit  of  irrrita- 
bility  at  the  slightest  thing  that  did  not  please  him  ;  and 
•worse  than  all,  omitting  to  commend  anything,  no  matter 
how  great  an  effort  had  been  made  by  his  wife  to  consult 
his  taste  and  conform  to  his  wishes,  depressed  the  timid 
creature  by  his  side  into  ill-health.  His  children  were 
sickly,  quiet  little  things,  without  energy  enough  for  a 
hearty  laugh,  or  health-giving  romp ;  and  he  was  con 
stantly  fretting  about  doctors'  bills  and  medicine,  and 
telling  his  friends  how  much  more  fortunate  they  were 
than  he  had  been  with  his  children;  never  suspecting 
that  he  poisoned  the  spring  of  his  own  happiness  at  the 
source. 

Why  did  he  not  show  a  cheerful  face  to  his  wife,  and 


THE    WORTH    OF   A    DOLL.  237 

warm  her  heart  with  a  sense  of  duty  fulfilled,  instead 
of  grudging  the  slightest  word  of  praise  ?  Why  did  he 
repress  the  joyous  laugh  of  childhood,  and  make  hia 
house  so  quiet  and  dull,  that  one  always  felt,  on  leaving, 
as  if  just  escaped  from  a  sick  chamber  ? 

0,  give  me  the  man  that  will  smile  a  warm,  genial, 
lionrtfelt  smile  when  I  please  him,  even  though  he  frown 
when  I  don't ;  and  keep  me  far  from  the  one  that  "  will 
never  praise." 


THE  WORTH  OF  A  DOLL. 

A  TRACT  has  been  written  on  the  worth  of  a  dollar ; 
but  I  know  not  that  any  one  has  written  upon  the  first 
four  letters  of  that  word — doll-wr.  I  think  much  might 
be  said  upon  it.  With  your  leave,  I  will  say  a  few 
words. 

Many  parents  seem  to  overlook  the  importance  of 
providing  home  amusement,  home  instruction,  and  home 
employment,  for  their  children.  The  minds  of  children 
are  active,  and  they  need  something  to  interest  them, 
amuse,  instruct,  and  employ  thei'i. 

As  soon  as  my  oldest  daughter  was  able  to  speak,  I 
procured  for  her  a  box  of  blocks,  with  the  letters  of  the 
alphabet  marked  upon  them.  With  these  she  amused 
herself,  and  soon  learned  the  whole  alphabet,  and  also 
to  spell  words  by  selecting  and  arranging  the  proper 
letters. 

In  like  manner,  I  procured  for  my  son  the  Infant'a 
Library  as  soon  as  he  could  repeat  the  letters.  First 


238  THE    WORTH    OF   A    DOLL. 

these  thirty-six  little  books  were  read  to  him  ;  very  soon 
he  learned  to  read  them  himself,  and  read  them  over 
and  over  again ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  they  were  of  aa 
much  service  to  him  as  the  next  six  months'  schooling, 
though  they  cost  but  twenty-five  cents. 

Last  fall  I  sent  for  a  DOLL  for  my  little  daughter.  It 
did  not  cost  a  dollar ;  but  it  was  better  than  I  intended 
to  get,  and  of  course  cost  more.  But  after  she  had 
been  in  possession  of  it  for  some  six  months,  I  began  to 
reckon  up  the  worth  of  it  to  her,  and  I  was  really  sur 
prised  to  find  the  sum  so  great. 

1.  -In  the  first  place,  it  had  made  her  contented 
at  home,  and  kept  her  out  of  the  streets ;  and 

this  was  surely  worth  to  her  at  least  .         .         $25  00 

2.  It   had  taught   her  to   sew,   cut   and  fit 
dresses,  and  make  hats   and  bonnets,  without 
without  calling  on  her  feeble  mother  for  aid,  at 

least 25  00 

3.  It  had  cultivated  a  cheerful,  contented,  and 
happy  disposition,     .....  25  00 

4.  It  had  furnished  self-employment,  amuse 
ment,  and  instruction  ;  and  so  relieved  her  sick 
mother  from  care,  ,  25  00 

5.  It  had  helped  to  develop  those  traits  so 
amiable  and  lovely  in  a  female,  sisterly  and  mo 
therly  affection,  and  love  for  domestic  duties,         50  00 

6.  As  a  motive  to  diligence  in  study  and  atten 
tion  to  other  duties,  it  had  been  worth  at  least       50  00 

7.  Other  benefits  unthought  of,  or  indescriba 
ble,  at  least 100  00 

Whole  amount,     ....         $oOO  00 


FARMERS'  SONS.  289 

So,  in  a  short  time,  I  found  the  little  doll  had  already 
been  worth  more  than  three  hundred  dollars!  Of  course 
I  concluded  that  the  few  shillings  had  been  profitably 
expended:  and  I  am  led  to  think  that  if  all  parents 
would  furnish  their  children  with  some  appropriate  home 
amusements  and  employments,  it  would  be  greatly  to  the 
advantage  of  both  parents  and  children.  It  may  not  bo 
necessary  for  all  to  purchase  dolls;  but  if  they  would 
expend  some  few  dollars  in  getting  good  books,  papers, 
and  the  like  for  themselves  and  their  children,  I  have 
no  doubt  that  in  less  than  a  year  they  would  find  it  a 
real  saving.  A  little  spent  in  this  way  might  save,  much 
needless  expense.  If  it  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  worth 
of  a  doll,  who  can  tell  the  value  of  a  good  book,  or  of 
a  useful  paper  ? 

Some  abhor  idolatry  who  are  yet  not  so  much  afraid 
of  dollar-worship !  For  a  little  child  to  play  with  a  doll 
is  a  very  harmless  kind  of  i-dol-a-try ;  and  though  many 
can  tell  tke  value  of  a  dollar,  I  very  much  doubt  whe 
ther  any  one  can  estimate,  in  a  family  of  children,  the 
worth  of  a  doll! 


FARMERS'    SONS. 

WHEN  a  young  man  leaves  his  home  in  the  country 
for  a  less  desirable  one  in  the  city,  or  elsewhere,  the 
inference,  as  a  general  thing,  is,  either  that  he  is 
"  spoiled"  by  indulgence  on  the  part  of  the  parents,  or, 
by  certain  influences  which  may  have  fallen  upon  him, 


240  FARMERS,    SONS. 

led  to  despise  labour  on  a  farm,  and  induced  Lo  seek  a 
less  laborious  and  more  easy  mode  of  life.  That  these 
are  not  the  only  causes  which  induce  boys  to  leave  a 
good  home  and  farm,  the  following  sketch  may  perhaps 
show. 

"I  arn  really  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Gove,  this 
afternoon.  Do  you  know  that  it  is  nearly  a  whole  year 
since  I've  had  this  pleasure,  and  you  my  nearest  neigh 
bour  ?" 

"  I  did  not  think  it  was  so  long,  but — but,  I  have  a 
great  deal  of  care." 

"  Yes,  you  certainly  must  have.  Let  us  take  our 
work  and  sit  on  the  piazza ;  it  is  much  cooler  there,  and 
secluded  from  the  sun." 

"  Can  we  see  our  meadow  from  there,  Mrs.  Norton  ?" 

"Let  me  see — 0,  yes,  very  well." 

"  Mr.  Gove,  with  the  men  and  Billy,  have  gone  down 
to  the  lower  field  fencing,  and  he  wished  me  to  have  an 
eye  on  the  meadow,  as  that  fence  is  all  down  and  our 
cattle  are  in  the  road.  I  see  you  have  finished  planting, 
Mrs.  Norton.  You  have  everything  done  in  season,  and 
yet  you  never  seem  hurried,  or  fretted.  You  must  take 
comfort." 

"•  Why,  as  to  that,  we  feel  that  there  is  nothing  worth 
doing,  but  is  worth  doing  well ;  and  feeling  thus,  we  own 
but  little  land,  a  small  farm  compared  with  yours,  and 
we  find  no  difficulty  in  having  our  work  done  at  the  right 
time." 

"  Yes, — and  I  can  hardly  realize,  Mrs.  Norton,  that 
this  is  the  same  place  where  1  played,  when  a  child,  'us 
so  changed,  and  so  beautifully  changed  ;  these  hand.sumc 


THE  FARMER'S  BOY. 


FARMERS'  SOP.S.  2U 

trees — why  in  this  very  spot  twenty  years  ago  a  su-ml 
bank  'twas,  in  which  nothing  grew  but  dock  and  tansiey. 
I  used  to  get  the  double  tansey  for  grandmother,  to  co 
lour  her  cheese  with.  I  am  not  surprised  that  my  Billy 
should  say,  as  he  did  to-day,  that  he  was  never  so  happy 
as  when  he  was  under  the  ash-tree  down  by  the  spring, 
lleally,  Mrs.  Norton,  that  is  the  only  one  near  our 
house,  and  that  is  fast  going  to  decay.  You  have  vines, 
trees  and  shrubs,  and  beautiful  flowers ;  why,  it  Heems 
to  me  these  things  must  tend  to  make  home  pleasant." 

"  You  are  right,  Mrs.  Gove ;  we  feel  that  by  cultivat 
ing  a  taste  for  the  beautiful  in  nature,  we  improve  the 
character  and  soften  the  heart." 

"  I  know  you  are  right ;  and  not  for  my  sake,  but  on 
Billy's  account,  I  wish  I  could  make  Mr.  Gove  think  as 
we  do.  But  perhaps  I  do  wrong  to  speak  in  this  wwy, 
for  Mr.  Gove  has  more  care  now  than  any  one  man 
ought  to  have,  and  I  know  that  he  has  no  time  for  any 
thing  but  barely  to  take  care  of  what  he  has,  without 
making  any  improvements.  But  I  am  in  hopes  when 
William  grows  up,  that  he  will  get  time  to  set  trees  and 
make  our  home  pleasant,  for  a  more  ardent  lover  of  na 
ture  I  surely  never  saw." 

"  Mrs.  Gove,  of  course  your  husband  knows  his  own 
business,  but  I've  often  thought  that  it  would  be  for  your 
interest  all  round,  if  your  husband  had  less  land  to  care 
for.  I  mean,  if  he  would  sell  some,  it  certainly  would 
lessen  his  care  as  well  as  your  own." 

"  Perhaps  so,  but  really  Mr.  Gove  doesn't  think  it 
looks  just  right  for  a  man  to  part  with  property  which 
has  been  handed  down  from  father  to  son,  until  it  is 
10 


212  FARMERS'  SONS. 

now  in  the  fourth  generation.  'Tis  true  I  have  a  good 
deal  of  care,  and  must  work  hard,  but  I  have  no  reason 
to  complain,  though  'twould  be  very  nice,  what  little 
time  I  have  to  sew,  to  sit  in  such  a  cool,  delightful  place 
as  this.  Perhaps  I'm  all  wrong,  and  think  too  much  of 
these  things." 

Mrs.  Gove  was  returning  from  the  visit  to  her  neigh 
bour,  which  they  had  mutually  enjoyed,  when  a  pat  on 
the  shoulder  caused  her  to  exclaim,  "Are  you  tired, 
Billy?"  as  she  gazed  earnestly  at  that  pale  face,  and 
Bought  to  read  the  language  of  those  dark  and  handsome 
eyes.  "  Are  you  tired,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  0,  I  am  very  tired ;  for  don't  you 
tnink  after  I  had  helped  father  as  long  as  he  had  any 
thing  for  me  to  do,  I  went  into  that  pretty  grove  where 
sis  and  I  played  the  week  before  she  died,  and  there, 
right  by  a  little  mossy  bank,  was  a  little  larch-  ree ;  and, 
mother,  I  wanted  very  much  to  dig  it  up  and  bring  it 
home,  and  set  it  out  by  your  bedroom  window.  1  am 
sure,  mother,  it  would  look  beautifully  there,  and  then 
I  never  should  see  it  without  thinking  of  little  Alice." 

"  Did  your  father  take  it  up  for  you  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Cove,  as  she  strove  to  force  back  the  tears  that  would 
•jomc. 

"  No,  mother  ;  I  took  the  spade  and  tried  ;  I  dug  all 
-iround  it,  but  I  couldn't  start  it  a  bit,  when  I  tried  to 
onll  it  up,  and  then  I  asked  father  if  he  would  let  Mike 
take  it  up  for  me.  You  know,  mother,  that  Mike  is  a 
good  hand,  for  he  helped  take  up  and  set  out  all  Mr, 
Norton's  trees." 

"And  what  did  your  father  "ay,  my  dear?" 


FARMERS'  SONS.  215 

"lie  said,  'don't  be  so  foolish,  child — we've  no  time 
to  fool  away,'  or  something  of  that  kind.  I  wish  /  had 
strength  to  pull  it  up  ;  but  I  don't  know  as  father  would 
let  me  set  it  out.  Do  you  think  it  is  foolish,  mother?" 

"My  dear  child,  your  father  has  a  great  deal  of  caro 
and  anxiety,  and  you  heard  him  say  this  morning,  when 
the  man  called  to  tell  him  his  fence  all  lay  flat,  arid 
everybody's  cattle  were  in,  that  his  work  was  driving 
him  continually;  so  perhaps  father  thought 'twould  be 
wrong  to  spend  the  time  that  is  now  so  precious  to  us, 
in  doing  what  we  could  get  along  without  doing." 

"Well,  mother,  does  father  take  much  comfort?  He 
is  always  behindhand,  and  he  never  finishes  all  the  jobs 
he  begins.  Why,  don't  you  know  last  summer  we  had 
so  much  to  do  that  we  did  not  get  time  to  hoe  that  piece 
of  corn  between  the  woods,  and  I  heard  father  say  my 
self,  that  it  did  not  begin  to  pay  for  the  ploughing.  And, 
mother,  you  know  I  heard  it  talked  over  at  the  store, 
how  father  had  to  pay  for  that  strip  of  land  he  bought 
of  Mr.  Chase,  twice,  because  he  did  not  get  time  to  make 
the  deed,  and  Mr.  Chase  died  before  'twas  done.  When 
I  hear  people  say  to  father,  'you  are  the  richest  man  in 
town,'  or,  '  you  own  the  most  land,'  why,  I  think,  well, 
I  don't  see  as  father  is  any  happier  than  the  neighbours, 
that  haven't  half  as  much.  Why,  I  heard  father  say 
to-day  that  he  was  harassed  to  death." 

The  night  after  the  above  conversation,  as  Billy  waa 
quietly  sleeping,  and  Mr.  Gove  sat  with  his  arms  folded, 
and  his  eyes  resting  on  the  wall,  Mrs.  Gove  asked  her 
husband,  in  rather  a  timid  tone,  if  he  had  noticed  how 
fully  Mr.  Norton's  fruit  trees  had  blown. 


2-14  FARMERS'  SONS. 

"  Well,  I  believe  I  saw  them,  or  heard  some  one  »pea!{ 
of  it.  But  I  am  tired." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  must  be ;  you've  worked  hard  all 
day." 

"I  have  worked  like  a  dog,  and  what  does  it  amount 
to?" 

"Do  you  think,"  said  his  wife,  "considering  we  have 
to  work  so  hard  and  hire  so  much  help,  that  it  i~  for 
your  interest  to  keep  all  the  land  ?" 

"  Think — I  don't  think  anything  about  it.  ve  got 
it,  and  I  must  take  care  of  it.  I  should  look  well  spend 
ing  what  has  so  long  been  in  the  family.  As  long  aa 
property  is  in  land  it  is  safe ;  but  change  it  into  money, 
or  anything  else,  and  ten  to  one  'tis  soon  gone,  nobody 
knows  where." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right ;  but  it  seems  to  me  you  could 
take  much  better  care  of  less,  make  it  more  profitable, 
and  at  the  same  time  relieve  yourself  of  this  care  and 
anxiety,  which  I  fear  is  wearing  upon  you.  And  then 
you  know  William  is  slender.  I  don't  think  he'll  ever 
be  able  to  work  as  hard  as  you  have  done." 

"  He  never  will,  if  he  is  brought  up  to  think  he  is 
too  good  to  work.  He  has  notions  in  his  head  now,  that 
*  fancy  will  do  him  no  good.  You  have  been  over  to 
Norton's  this  afternoon.  I  suppose  his  wife  advised  yon 
what  was  best  for  us  to  do. — Why,  Betsey,  can't  you 
Bee  through  it  all  ?  They  have  been  and  sold  half  of 
their  farm,  and  laid  out  the  money  in  trees,  and  I  don't 
know  what  all, — sent  the  boys  to  school  instead  of  teach 
ing  them  to  work,  and  so  she  wants  us  to  do  the  same. 
— Ha  !  ha !  misery  likes  company.  The  long  and  short 


FARMERS'  SONS,  245 

of  it  is,  Betsey,  Mrs.  Norton  wanted  to  get  rid  of  work. 
I  wish  they  had  sold  the  whole  concern  and  cleared  out, 
for  I  see  plainly  you  nor  William  can  go  over  there,  but 
it  bewitches  you.  No — you  will  never  see  me  covering 
my  land,  or  surrounding  my  house  with  boughten  trees. 
If  I  had  time,  I  should  like  well  enough  to  set  out  a 
maple  or  something  near  the  house.  I  should  like  one 
or  two  for  the  horses  to  stand  under,  but  I  haven't  the 
time,  neither  do  I  think  it  best  to  encourage  any  such 
notions  in  the  boy.  You  know  how  it  is — '  if  you  give 
an  inch  they'll  take  an  ell.'  He  begged  hard  for  us  to 
dig  up  a  larch  this  afternoon,  but  indulgence  will  spoil 
any  child.  If  I  had  done  that  for  him,  why  he  would 
only  have  wanted  more ;  and  if  he  got  too  many  such 
notions,  why  he  is  headstrong,  and  the  first  we  should 
know  he  would  be  off  like  others  we  know  of.  No ;  the 
only  way  to  get  along  with  children  is  to  be  strict;  no 
arguing  with  them,  and  no  giving  way  to  their  foolish 
wants." 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  indulgence  that  made  George 
White  go  to  New  York  ?  I  don't  know  but  what  it  might 
be,  his  mother  was  dreadful  careful  of  him." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  'tis  makes  boys  leave 
their  fathers'  homes  and  farms,  and  go  off  to  the  city, 
and  barely  get  their  board,  if  it  isn't  letting  them  have 
their  will  and  way." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  over-indulgence  begets  self- 
will,  and  overcomes  a  child's  sense  of  duty,  so  that  re 
straint  is  thrown  off,  and  parental  obligation  disregarded ; 
btit,  husband,  I  do  believe  one  thing,  and  that  is,  if  we 
wish  Willie  to  love  his  home,  we  must  make  it  happy, 


246  FARMERS'  SONS. 

if  we  wish  his  warmest  affections  to  cluster  around  (his 
place,  \ve  mint  make  it  attractive.  You  think  the  Nor 
ton  boys  are  indulged  too  much,  hut  this  indulgence  is 
nothing  more  than  a,  desire  on  the  parents'  part,  judi 
ciously  carried  out,  to  make  them  useful  and  kappy. 
And  I  believe  they  take  the  right  course.  No  children 
love  their  home  better  than  they  do.  Mrs.  N.  tells  me 
that  it  is  with  the  greatest  reluctance  that  they  leave 
home  in  the  vacation,  to  visit  their  cousins  in  the  city." 

"Well,  well,  don't  say  any  more,  for  I  have  as  much 
as  I  can  do  to  get  through  the  day's  work,  and  I  for  one 
want  to  sleep  in  the  night !  Mrs.  Norton  is  welcome  to 
her  notions,  and  I  will  have  mine !" 

"While  Mr.  G.  is  wrapped  in  the  "sweet  sleep  of  the 
labouring  man,"  and  Mrs.  G.  is  revolving  in  her  own 
mind  the  many  different  plans  which  suggest  themselves 
to  a.  mother's  ever-watchful  heart,  for  the  good  of  her 
boy,  let  us  take  a  peep  at  the  character  of  both  parents 
arid  child. 

Had  a  stranger  inquired  of  almost  any  one  in  N., 
"What  sort  of  a  man  is  Mr.  Gove  ?"  the  answer  would 
probably  be  to  this  effect:  "Fine  man,  sir,  upright,  ho 
nest,  and  firm  ;  trifles  don't  move  him."  Granted — but 
let  us  see  if  there  can  be,  with  these  good  qualities,  no 
thing  wanting. 

Mr.  G.  was  stern;  in  his  view,  the  "smoothing  orer" 
>f  an  affair  was  never  advisable.  Billy,  as  a  child,  had 
nuch  to  contend  with  in  the  way  of  passion,  pride,  arid 
self-will ;  like  almost  all  children,  occasional  acts  of 
thoughtlessness  and  hasty  impulse  led  him  into  error 
and  its  painful  consequences.  Had  his  father  beer 


FARMERS'  SONS.  247 

careful  to  "do  justice  to  his  better  qualities,  while  at 
the  same  time  he  blamed  and  convinced  him  of  his 
faults,"  all  might  have  been  well;  but  Mr.  G.  never 
met  his  errors  in  "love  and  conquered  them  by  forgive 
ness."  Unjust  harshness  actually  confirmed  him  in  er 
ror.  Mr.  G.  was  spoken  of  as  a  generous  man ;  but,  to 
use  the  beautiful  language  of  one  departed,  "  There  are 
those  who  are  lavish  in  attention  and  presents  to  friends, 
but  who  never  imagine  that  their  own  home  circle  has 
the  first  and  strongest  claim  to  kindness,  whether  of 
word  or  deed.  Affections  and  thoughts  lavished  on 
comparative  strangers  never  radiate  on  home ;  but  when 
given  to  home  first,  they  shed  light  and  kindness  far 
and  near."  Mr.  G.  never  won  the  heart  of  his  child. 
How  was  it  with  the  mother  ?  She  possessed  the  rare 
combination  of  "  gentleness  with  firmness,  submissive- 
ness  with  dignity."  Her  anxious  desire  was  to  do  jus 
tice  to  his  better  feelings,  and  while  she  wished  to  edu 
cate  his  mind,  she  was  more  anxious  that  his  heart 
should  be  won  and  taught. 

But  little  change,  outwardly,  was  visible  in  the  Gove 
family  when  William  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year. 
The  homestead  remained  the  same — save  some  marks 
which  "  Time's  effacing  fingers"  had  not  failed  to  make. 
The  "ash-tree"  by  the  spring  was  gone,  and  the  maple 
"for  the  horse  to  stand  under,"  had  never  been  "set 
out." 

One  fine  morning  in  May,  William  asked  his  father 
if  he  might  have  the  sorrel  horse  to  go  to  the  village 
adjoining.  Permission  was  given  on  condition  that  he 


248  FARMERS'  SONS. 

would  return  before  dinner.  Dinner  came,  and  with  it 
came  William. 

"  What  has  our  William  been  doing  !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Gove,  as  he  gave  a  hasty  glance  at  the  window.  "  Cut 
ting  a  wagon  load  of  withes." 

"  I  don't  .know ;  but  I  can't  see  very  well  without  my 
glasses." 

'Twas  easy  to  see,  however,  that  that  hasty  glance 
had  ruffled  the  smooth  current  of  his  thoughts,  for  he  at 
once  knew  that  withes  needed  no  roots.  William  took 
out  the  horse,  wheeled  the  wagon  into  the  shed,  and 
entering  the  long  kitchen,  seated  himself  at  the  table. 
The  mother,  with  her  quick  perception,  failed  not  to 
understand  why  that  shadow  rested  upon  the  father's 
brow.  Hardly  a  word  was  spoken — Mr.  G.,  upon  leaving 
the  table,  took  up  a  newspaper,  a  thing  which  he  rarely 
had  time  to  do ;  it  was  evident  to  Billy,  however,  that 
he  was  not  reading  very  intently,  for  the  paper  was 
upside  down.  When  William  left  the  house,  he  went 
directly  for  the  spade  and  hoe,  and  walking  deliberately 
down  the  hillside,  south  of  the  house,  commenced  making 
holes  twelve  feet  apart,  where  he  had  helped  his  father 
plough  the  day  before.  He  had  thus  been  engaged 
half  an  hour,  when,  rising  to  wipe  the  heavy  drops  of 
moisture  from  his  forehead,  he  saw  his  father  looking 
earnestly  at  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  William  ?" 

"  I  am  fixing  places  to  set  out  trees  !" 

"What  kind  of  trees?" 

"  Peach  and  pear  trees,  sir." 

"  Where  did  you  get  them  ?" 


FARMERS'    BONS.  249 

"I  bought  them  at  a  tree  auction  to-day." 

"  You  did  !     Well,  you  can't  set  them  here,  sir  !" 

"I  can't — -what's  the  reason?" 

"  There  are  reasons  enough,  though  I  am  under  no 
obligations  to  tell  children  ;  yet  I  won't  be  particular 
this  time.  In  the  first  place,  I  wish  you  to  understand 
once  for  all,  that  you  take  one  step  too  far  when  you 
buy  trees  without  leave  or  license ;  and  more  than  that, 
proceed  deliberately  to  put  them  on  my  best  corn  land. 
And  now  you  can  do  what  you  please  with  the  trees. 
You  have  taken  far  too  much  liberty.  You  shall  never 
set  them  on  my  land." 

Without  one  word,  William  shouldered  his  spade  and 
walked  to  the  house.  His  mother,  who  stood  at  the 
corner  window,  although  she  had  heard  no  word  spoken, 
understood  the  Avhole  affair  perfectly.  She  saw  William 
shoulder  the  spade,  and  then  her  heart  beat  heavily ; 
but  quickly  raising  the  corner  of  her  apron,  she  wiped 
away  the  tears  which  were  fast  falling,  and  met  her  son 
with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  mother,  I've  done,"  said  he,  as  he  sunk  down 
on  the  old  kitchen  chair ;  "  I've  done  trying  to  be  any 
thing  here.  He  won't  let  me  be  anybody  !" 

"  My  child,  don't  speak  so  disrespectfully  of  your 
father.  He,  Billy,  that  sounds  dreadfully ;  never  say 
that  again,  my  son." 

"I  can't  help  it,  mother;  I  shan't  stay  here.  You 
know  what  I  told  you  last  week,  mother,  and  to-day  I 
have  had  something  come  across  my  feelings,  harder 
to  bear  than  all.  When  I  was  coming  from  the  village, 
I  met  a  man  with  a  double  wagon,  and  a  bo:iutiful  larch 


2&0  FARMERS'  SONS 

tree  in  it.  I  was  hoping  to  buy  it,  so  I  asked  him  where 
he  got  it.  '  Squire  Gove  gave  it  to  me,'  he  replied.  0, 
mother,  wasn't  that  too  much  ?  I  asked  him  who  took 
it  up ;  and  he  said  his  Irishman,  that  he  called  Mike 
I  could  have  torn  that  tree  in  splinters,  mother.  I  rode 
round  by  the  grove,  and  sure  enough,  'twas  gone ;  and 
the  mossy  seat  all  trampled  and  torn.  Do  you  think 
after  that  I  would  ask  him  to  let  me  set  out  the  trees  ? 
No,  mother,  if  father  can  do  without  me,  I  can  do  with 
out  him.  I  shall  go  away  as  soon  as  you  can  get  my 
things  ready.  Of  course,  the  folks  will  say,  '  What  an 
ungrateful  boy,  to  leave  his  father  alone ;'  but  why 
can't  father  try  to  please  me  as  well  as  others — as  well 
as  strangers?  There  are  the  Norton  boys — if  father 
had  done  one-quarter  for  me  that  their  father  has  done 
for  them,  I  should  be  very,  very  happy.  0,  mother, 
don't  feel  so  bad — you  must  not  blame  me.  I  know 
you  are  a  real  Christian,  mother,  but  I  ain't  like  you : 
you  overlook,  and  forgive  everything.  I  am  somewhat 
like  father  ;  I  wish  I  was  just  like  you." 

William  expected  his  mother  would  entreat  him  to 
stay  at  home ;  but  no,  not  one  word  did  she  say  in 
favour  of  it.  She  knew  these  were  little  things  to  cause 
the  boy  to  leave  the  home  of  his  youth  for  a  home  among 
strangers ;  but  she  knew  also  that  the  joys  and  griefs 
at  home  are  almost  all  made  up  of  little,  very  little 
things. 

We  will  hasten  over  the  particulars  of  William's 
leaving  home,  and  only  say  that  his  father's  parting 
words  were,  "  I  can  do  without  you  as  long  as  you  can 
without  me,  WTilliam."  In  four  weeks  from  this  leave- 


FARMERS'  SONS.  251 

taking,  William  was  a  sort  of  waiter  on  board  a  Missis 
sippi  steamboat. 

Mr.  Gove  bired  an  extra  hand :  many  people  sbook 
their  heads  meaningly,  and  said  it  was  a  pity,  a  great 
pity,  but  nothing  new  or  strange,  for  an  only  child  to  be 
spoiled  by  indulgence ;  but  then,  he  was  a  pretty,  bright 
boy,  and  they  supposed  it  came  hard  to  punish  him; 
but  "  Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child,"  was  Scripture. 

The  summer  was  passed,  the  golden  grain  was  gar 
nered,  and  the  rich  fruits  secured,  when  Mr.  Gove,  who 
had  grown  somewhat  moody  of  late,  called  Mike  to  the 
back  door,  and  giving  him  some  directions,  took  his  hat, 
and  passing  out  the  other  door,  joined  him. 

"  Let  me  see,  you  have  the  spade  and  hoe.  Well, 
now,  come  down  with  me  to  the  side  of  the  hill  where 
the  early  corn  was  planted ;  and  do  you  remember  where 
the  holes  were,  that  William  made  last  spring  ?" 

"  And  sure  'tis  not  me  that's  afthur  forgatting  sich 
things ;  for  didn't  I  put  a  flat  stone  by  every  bite  of 
'um ;  and  didn't  I  in  hoeing  and  harvest  keep  them 
from  being  shoved  a  bit  ?  For  do  you  mind,  sir,  I  set  a 
dale  by  the  boy — he  wouldn't  hurt  a  baste,  sir,  and  his 
heart  is  as  big  as  a  whale." 

"  Well,  well,  that's  enough,  Mike.  Now,  you  bring 
all  the  trees  you  buried  in  the  swamp,  and  set  them  out 
just  as  you  did  Norton's  ;  and  do  you  know  which  were 
the  trees  designed  for  the  holes  William  had  opened?" 

"And  faith,  I  mind  it  well;  for  didn't  I  tie  a  string 
round  'um,  and  lay  'um  jes  so  ?" 

"Well,  set  them  right;  and  when  you  have  done 
them,  call  me  from  the  house." 


252  FARMERS'  SONS. 

Mr.  G.  took  the  arm-chair,  and  moving  it  to  the  bed 
room  window,  seemed  lost  in  thought.  Surely,  he  must 
be  sick ;  for  he  never  was  known  to  sit  down  of  a  week 
day  except  at  meal  times. 

Two  hours  passed,  and  Mike  was  passing  the  window, 
when  he  was  thus  accosted  by  Mr.  G. :  "  Have  you 
done,  Mike?" 

"  Sure,  sir,  a  plasant  job  to  me  ;  I  was  lazy  to  quat  it." 

"  Now  take  your  spade,  and  prepare  a  place  by  this 
window,  where  you  see  I've  placed  the  stick,  for  a  larger 
tree.  Now,  if  you  have  it  right,  go  over  to  Captain 
Burns',  and  ask  him  if  he  will  sell  me  that  larch-tree  in 
the  west  corner  of  his  birch  lot.  Tell  him  the  price  ia 
no  object ;  and  be  careful  you  don't  break  any  of  the 
small  roots ;  be  very  careful,  Mike." 

"  No  fear  o'  that,  sir." 

"  Stop,  that  is  not  all.  When  you  come  home,  call  at 
Smith's,  and  tell  him  I  have  concluded  to  let  him  have 
the  land,  and  tell  him  to  come  over  this  afternoon,  and 
Squire  Norton  will  be  here  to  fix  the  writings.  Tell  all 
who  inquire  for  me  that  I  am  sick." 

Before  night,  one-third  of  Mr.  Gove's  land  was  in 
Mr.  Smith's  possession,  and  the  deeds  on  record.  The 
larch  seemed  quite  at  home  by  the  bedroom  window. 

And  now,  what  strange  spell  was  this  upon  Mr.  G^ve  ? 

"  0,  there  are  moments  in  our  life, 
When  but  a  thought,  a  word,  a  look  has  power 
To  wrest  the  cup  of  happiness  aside, 
And  stamp  us  wretched." 

The  evening  before,  Mr.  G.  chanced  to  take  ur  a 


FARMERS'  SONS.  253 

Bt.'hool-book   of  William's,   and   on   a  blank   leaf  were 
written,  in  a  neat  school-boy  hand,  these  simple  lines  :— 

"  Tis  the  last  blooming  summer  these  eyes  shall  behold; 
Long;,  long  ere  another,  this  heart  shall  be  cold : 
tor  0,  its  warm  feelings  on  earth  have  been  chilled, 
And  I  grieve  not  that  shortly  its  pulse  will  be  stilled." 

Mr.  G.  dropped  the  book,  and  wandered,  he  hardly 
knew  whither,  till  he  found  himself  in  the  swamp  where 
William's  trees  were  buried.  What  followed,  the  reader 
already  knows. 

Mrs.  G.  had  finished  her  day's  work,  and  was  seating 
herself  in  the  little  rocking-chair,  when  Mr.  G.  called 
to  her  from  the  bedroom. 

"  Betsey,  will  you  sit  in  here  ?  I  want  you  to  write 
a  letter  to  William  to-night." 

"  To-night !     Why  it  is  after  nine  o'clock  !" 

"  I  know  it,  but  I  shall  feel  better  if  it  is  done  to 
night.  I  feel  sick  all  over,  and  perhaps  I  am  nervous." 

"  I  will  write  what  you  wish  me  to,  my  dear  husband." 

"  0,  don't  say  so — but  tell  Billy  I  wish  him  to  come 
home  without  delay ;  tell  him  for  the  love  he  bears  his 
mother,  and  for  the  love  I  bear  him,  to  come  now.  Say 
that  my  hand  trembles  so,  I  can't  write  thi»;  but  I  say 
it  from  my  inmost  heart." 

Mrs.  G.,  with  an  overflowing  heart,  quickly  performed 
the  delightful  task. 

"And  now,  Betsey,  I  will  try  to  ask  God  to 
over  that  boy,  and  to  soften  my  own  proud  heart." 

"0  !  when  the  heart  is  full — -when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  f->r  utterance, 


254  THE    SPIRIT-MAIDEN   OF   RHIN ELAND. 

And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 

Are  such  a  very  mockery — how  much 

The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer." 

June,  beautiful  June,  the  "  month  of  roses,"  found 
Mr.  G.  in  that  "old  arm-chair,"  by  the  bedroom  win 
dow,  but  0,  how  changed ! 

"  His  hair  was  thin,  and  on  his  brow 
A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year, 
Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now." 

It  was  the  last  day  of  his  earthly  existence.  The 
gentle  breeze,  as  it  swept  through  the  light  foliage  of 
that  beautiful  larch,  caused  him  to  open  those  eyes  so 
soon  to  be  closed  for  ever — and  as  they  met,  for  the 
last  time  on  earth,  those  of  his  own  Billy,  upon  whose 
arm  his  head  rested,  he  whispered,  "  I  die  happy  now,' 
and  the  scene  of  life  had  closed. 


THE  SPIRIT-MAIDEN  OF  RHINELAND. 

IT  was  almost  evening ;  the  sun  was  sinking  upon  it3 
imperial  couch  of  gorgeous  clouds,  whilst  beautiful  beams 
of  crimson  and  gold  were  reflected  through  the  trees. 
The  calm,  broad-bosomed  Rhine  slept  along  its  green- 
embowered  banks,  and  the  dying  sun-rays  twinkled  and 
flashed  in  its  blue  depths. 

The  summer  air  was  soft,  and  sweet  as  a  breath  of 
roses ;  and  a  gush  of  dreamy  melody  from  some  idling 


THE    SPIRIT-MAIDEN    OF   RHINELAND.  255 

bark  upon  the  water,  stole  as  a  "  spirit's  presence"  over 
the  earth. 

Paul  stood  at  the  door  of  his  father's  mansion,  watch 
ing  the  changing  colours  'of  the  beautiful  landscape. 
His  heart  was  overflowing  with  a  burst  of  tumultuoua 
emotions,  thanksgiving  and  praise  to  the  Watchful  One. 
He  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  and  glanced  back 
into  the  chamber  which  he  had  but  just  left ;  there,  in 
his  accustomed  place,  the  evening  glow  tinging  his  silvery 
locks,  sat  the  blind  and  aged  father,  and  at  his  side, 
upon  a  low  stool,  was  seated  his  young  cousin,  the  meek 
and  fair-haired  Bertha. 

The  maiden  held  her  lute,  and  her  white  fingers 
glanced  like  snow-flakes  over  the  glistening  chords  as 
she  played  a  light  wild  melody.  She  was  singing  a 
Rhinish  love-song,  and  her  voice,  so  sweet  and  low,  fell 
like  the  tones  of  a  silver  bell  upon  the  evening  air. 

A  soft  and  holy  influence  was  enveloping  Paul's 
senses ;  but  he  thought  he  saw  a  white  figure  glancing 
in  the  wood,  and  a  spirit-voice  seemed  calling  to  him,  as 
it  said, 

"  Paul !  Paul !  where  art  thou  ?" 

The  voice  called,  and  the  echoes  caught  the  wild, 
witching  melody,  and  Paul  knew  that  it  was  the  voice 
of  his  spirit-maiden  singing  to  him.  He  walked  forth 
into  the  wood  with  a  saddened  heart,  and  seated  himself 
upon  a  mossy  stone. 

"  Etheria !  Etheria !  here  is  thy  Paul,"  he  called  in 
answer;  but  the  voice  was  silent,  and  he  heard  only  the 
sound  of  the  wind,  as  it  moved  in  the  leaves,  or  the 
dreamy  tinklings  of  the  fountain. 


256  THE    SPIRIT-MAIDEN    OF   RHINELAND. 

Paul  had  never  seen  his  spirit-maiden,  save  in  hifl 
dreams,  when  she  came  to  him  clothed  in  all  her  virgin 
beauty,  and  whispered  to  him  of  her  love.  But  she 
floated  upon  every  gold-tinted  cloud.  She  smiled  in  the 
shining  sunlight,  and  breathed  words  of  love  in  the 
beautiful  flowers.  He  saw  her  not,  and  yet  he  loved. 

The  sun  was  gone  quite  down,  and  had  left,  as  a  re 
membrance  of  what  had  passed,  and  what  was  yet  to 
be,  a  crown  of  glorious  rose-clouds  lingering  in  the  sky. 
Paul  wandered  again  sorrowfully  towards  the  mansion. 
Bertha  was  sitting  at  the  tablette,  with  her  Bible  open 
before  her,  and  she  read  to  the  aged  man  the  holy  words. 
Never  had  she  looked  so  lovely.  Her  soft  blue  eyea 
were  filled  with  tears  as  she  read,  and  her  bright  fair 
hair  fell  like  a  beautiful  veil  over  her  neck  and  shoul 
ders.  As  Paul  gazed  upon  her  beauty,  a  gleam  of  flash 
ing  silver  light  glanced  through  the  apartment ;  but  an 
instant,  and  it  was  gone  again.  It  was  not  the  moon 
light — it  was  the  smile  of  the  spirit-maiden.  And  Paul 
thought  no  more  of  the  fair  Bertha,  but  mourned  for  hia 

O  » 

soul's  shadow. 

When  the  devotion  was  over,  Bertha  led  the  old  man 
to  his  chamber,  and  returning  again,  found  Paul  sitting 
listless  and  gloomy. 

"  Paul,"  whispered  the  beautiful  Rhinish  maiden,  aa 
she  laid  her  hand  gently  upon  his  arm,  "  thou  art  sor 
rowful,  and  I  may  not  comfort  thee." 

Her  tones  were  very  sad  and  reproachful.  Paul  drevp 
her  towards  him,  and  kissed  her  fair  brow. 

"  I  am  sorrowful,  my  beloved  Bertha,"  he  said,  mourn 
fully,  "  for  I  must  leave  this  beautiful  Rhineland — nvy 


THE    SPIRIT-MAIDEN    OF   RHINELAND.  257 

Bpirif-love  awaiteth  me.  Hearest  thou  not  her  voice 
calling  me  ?  Seest  thou  not  her  wavy  tresses  beckoning 
me?  My  love  awaiteth  me,  and  I  may  not  stay." 

Bertha  knew  of  his  strange  love  for  the  spirit-maiden, 
and  she  bowed  her  face  amid  her  ringlets,  and  wept. 

"  Weep  not,  my  beloved  one,"  said  Paul,  in  a  soothing 
voice ;  "  weep  not,  I  shall  soon  return  again,  and  thy 
heart  shall  be  made  glad  by  the  gay  smiles  and  witching 
tones  of  my  own  spirit-maiden." 

Bertha  pushed  back  the  drooping  tresses  from  her 
weeping  face,  and  gliding  from  his  embrace  reached  the 
door. 

"  Paul,"  she  whispered,  sadly,  "  when  thou  art  far 
distant,  forget  not  the  maiden  of  Khineland." 

Alas !  Paul  knew  not  the  deep  and  holy  love  which 
rested  in  that  innocent  heart  for  him. 

Paul  reclined  upon  his  couch,  but  slept  not.  The 
moon  looked  down  at  him,  and  the  stars  twinkled  and 
danced  in  the  sky.  A  voice  full  of  mirth  and  witchery 
came  floating  on  the  breeze,  and  whispering  in  the  leaf 
lets.  Paul  arose  from  his  couch,  and  stealing  from  his 
chamber,  gained  the  open  air.  With  quickened  foot 
steps  he  reached  the  wood,  and  hastened  to  the  fountain. 
And  there,  among  the  trees,  stood  a  maiden  of  wondrous 
beauty,  clad  in  shadowy  garments,  beckoning  and  smiling 
through  the  shower  of  the  fountain. 

Paul  sprang  to  catch  the  beautiful  form  in  his  em 
brace  ;  but,  as  he  came  nearer,  it  still  receded — the 
mirthful  tones  still  calling, 

"  Paul !  Paul !  where  art  thou?" 

Sometimes  she  hid  among  the  trees.,  and  then  again 
17 


258  THE    SPIRJ /-MAIDEN    OF    REIINELAND. 

her  soft  breath  fanned  his  cheek,  and  her  dark  tressea 
fell  like  a  cloud  over  his  face.  Now  she  vanished  in  a 
wreath  of  spray,  or  seemed  lost  in  her  own  strain  of 
fairy  music,  and  then  she  floated  in  the  moonlight, 
smiling,  and  waving  her  white  arms.  But  ever  sang  she, 
and  ever  followed  the  youth. 

Paul  stood  upon  the  summit  of  a  high  mountain, 
whither  he  had  followed  his  spirit-love.  His  father's 
mansion  was  lost  to  view,  and  the  spirit-maiden  had 
vanished  in  a  mist  of  snow — her  voice  was  hushed.  He 
had  reached  the  highest  peak :  but  he  was  alone — the 
clouds  above,  and  the  snow  below.  He  thought  he  heard 
the  vesper-bell  ringing  on  the  air,  and  Bertha's  voice 
reading  the  evening  devotion ;  the  lulling  sound  of 
dreamy  whisperings  bewildered  him,  and  he  sank  upon 

the  ground  insensible. 

***** 

The  years  pass  by  in  their  varied  attire,  ever  choosing 
a  new  devotee  to  worship  at  the  shrines  of  bitter  sorrow, 
or  awakening  hopes.  The  aged  father  was  long  since 
dead,  and  was  buried  upon  the  banks  of  the  beautiful 
Rhine.  The  witchern  drooped  its  branches  over  his 
grave,  and  the  "  sad  bird"  sang  mournfully  in  the  green 
leaves. 

The  gentle  Bertha  dwelt  alone  in  the  old  mansion, 
more  beautiful  and  more  beloved  than  before.  She  often 
thought  of  her  old  love,  Paul,  but  he  had  disappeared 
years  ago,  and  was  perhaps  buried  in  a  foreign  land. 
Thus,  like  a  fair  lily,  she  bloomed  in  sequestered  loveli 
ness  upon  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  ever  modest,  gentle, 
and  meek 


THE    SPIRIT-MAIDEN    OF   KHINELANP.  259 

One  lovely  day,  when  the  summer  had  returned  again 
in  fragrance  and  flowers,  Bertha  sat  at  her  lattice  net 
ting  a  silken  fillet  to  bind  her  fair  tresses.  Old  memo 
ries  came  crowding  around  her  heart,  and  tears  trembled 
upon  her  golden  lashes.  She  thought  of  one  so  dear  to 
her  heart — Paul.  A  tall,  sun-burnt  man,  with  a  sad 
dened,  care-worn  look  upon  his  features,  came  slowly  up 
the  pathway  which  led  to  the  door.  He  was  changed — 
much  changed,  and  older,  but  Bertha's  heart  knew  that 
it  was  Paul.  He  reached  the  door-way — Bertha  threw 
down  her  silken  net,  and,  gliding  to  the  door,  cried, 
"Paul!  Paul!  is  it  thou  ?" 

In  an  instant  he  folded  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  rest 
ed,  weeping  and  smiling,  upon  his  breast. 

"  And  the  spirit-maiden,  Paul?"  asked  the  fair  Bertha, 
as  they  sat,  side  by  side,  in  the  father's  hall,  as  in  days 
of  yore. 

"  Ask  me  not,  Bertha,"  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  he  pressed  her  hand  still  closer  in  his,  "  ask  me  not. 
It  is  enough,  alas  !  too  much  to  know  that  I  sought  for  the 
ideal,  and  knew  not  the  true  value  of  the  real.  Hal  I 
but  dreamed  how  fond  and  true  was  the  gentle  heart  that 
beat  for  me  in  mine  own  Rhineland,  then  would  the 
spirit-maiden  have  been,  indeed,  as  a  shadow." 

Bertha  felt  that  she  was  beloved  at  last,  and  she 
rested  her  fair  cheek  fondly  upon  his  bosom,  whispering, 

"  Oh,  Paul !  shall  we  not  be  happy  now?" 
*  *  *  * 

Many — ah,  how  many  have  deserted  the  substance, 
which  was  within  their  grasp,  for  the  shadow,  which,  un 
certain,  flits  hither  and  thither !  ^Ideal  bliss  takes  winga 


260  PASSING   AWAY. 

and  flies  away ;  real  happiness  folds  its  pinions  amid 
the  flowers  of  earth,  nor  seeks  a  better  resting-place. 
The  substance  places  a  wreath  of  emerald  around  the 
heart,  unchanging  in  its  hues  ;  the  shadow  rests  in  the 
soul  as  an  opal,  with  its  many  beauties.  Then  seek  not 
for  a  happiness  greater  than  that  of  the  present  hour ; 
the  morn  arises  in  golden  beauty,  but  the  night  may  be 
a  clouded  sky,  starless  and  unsearchable. 


PASSING   AWAY. 

WE  do  not  sufficiently  avail  ourselves  of  this  trite  and 
common  saying — there  is  a  world  of  meaning  in  it,  that 
would  brush  away  many  a  tear,  and  many  a  silly  care 
which  is  spent  upon  trifles  ;  for  it  is  a  fact  that  tears  are 
shed  about  very  small  matters. 

A  mother  bought  for  her  little  daughter  a  new  bonnet, 
but  the  colour  was  not  exactly  the  shade  of  her  friend 
Ellen's,  neither  was  it  the  precise  shape.  She  wept  till 
her  eyes  were  red,  and  she  had  to  stay  from  school.  The 
bonnet  was  worn  but  a  few  weeks,  and  laid  away  for  a 
mourning  one,  and  the  tears  were  needed  for  the  parent's 
(lying  bed. 

A  young  lady  has  been  dreadfully  mortified.     She 
forgot  to  change  the  things  in  the  pocket  of  her  dress, 
and  what  did  she  do  but  draw  out  a  coarse  shilling  hand 
kerchief,  in  the  parlour,  before  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

"  Oh  what  a  crime,  to  use  such  a  poor  thing  in  any 


PASSING    AWAY.  25J 

way,  and  leave  one's  self  liable  to  such  a  mistake — if  it 
was  clean,  no  matter — dear  me,  it  was  horrible  !" 

My  dear,  it  was  not  a  shadow  in  contrast  with  that 
pert  answer  you  gave  to  your  dear  mamrria  as  you  left 
the  room.  Who  cared  for  that  pocket  handkerchief? 
every  one  was  absorbed  in  their  own  interests — the  next 
we  hear  of  some  of  that  little  party,  one  or  more  were 
on  the  other  side  of  the  globe ;  and  if  they  remembered 
anything  about  you.  it  was  something  you  said,  or  some 
pleasant  or  unpleasant  temper  you  indicated  in  your  be 
haviour  or  expression. 

"  Your  bonnet  looks  exceedingly  stiff  and  plain,"  said 
one  sister  to  another  ;  "  it  needs  the  touches  of  Madame, 
to  give  it  a  pretty,  easy  air."  "Passing  away,  it  will 
be  with  the  trash  in  the  garret  this  time  next  year ;"  and 
skipped  off  to  her  music  lesson. 

"  This  dress  is  a  perfect  eye  sore  to  me,"  said  Mrs 
Landon  to  her  husband,  "  and  if  you  had  not  overper 
suaded  me  I  would  not  have  bought  it — I  might  hav< 
known  it  was  entirely  out  of  fashion,  and  would  be,  be 
fore  I  could  put  it  on."  Her  husband  made  no  reply, 
for  he  too  well  remembered  the  drain  it  was  upon  his 
small  funds  to  purchase  that  dress,  and  for  him  to  say 
he  hoped  it  would  do  for  a  good  while  to  come,  would 
only  be  adding  fuel  to  the  flame.  So  he  remained 
silent.  Poor  woman,  who  is  minding  her  dress?  if  she 
is  making  a  comfortable  home  for  her  children,  and 
striving  to  help  her  struggling  husband  through  his  dif 
ficulties,  she  is  indeed  beautifully  decorated. 

"Your  hat  would  look  sweet,"  said  Amelia  to  her 
friend,  "if  that  ribbon  was  a  different  colour."  "Oh 


262  PASSING   AWAY. 

don't  name  it  to  me,  it  has  given  me  a  deal  of  trouble, 
I  never  put  it  on  but  I  hate  it,  I  cannot  bear  to  look  at 
it  ir.  the  glass — I  have  tried  every  way  to  manage  to 
buy  a  new  ribb'on  like  Mary  Fanshaw's,  but  cannot  make 
it  out.  You  know  papa  gives  us  a  stated  sum  for  our 
clothing.*'  Dear  child,  it  was  the  last  bonnet  she  wore 
— disease  confined  her  to  the  house  for  months,  and  then 
she  was  clad  for  the  tomb. 

"  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  looking  at  this  old-fashioned 
furniture ;  and  really,  Mr.  Edmund,  you  must  get  me 
something  new,  if  it  is  only  for  this  parlour ;  I  am 
ashamed  to  go  with  my  neighbours  to  call,  and  expect 
them  back  again,  for  we  do  look  so  shabby — we  have 
not  had  a  new  sofa  or  chair  since  we  were  married." 
Mr.  Edmund  was  shaving,  and  it  was  just  as  well  for 
him  and  his  wife  too,  for  he  began  to  think  of  the  old 
sofa  in  his  New  England  home,  that  had  belonged  to 
his  grandmother,  and  how  pleased  his  mother  was  when 
it  was  brought  into  her  house.  As  a  sequel  to  his 
thoughts  he  let  slip  from  his  tongue,  "delightful  hours." 
We  may  suppose  they  were  the  happy,  easy,  contented 
ones,  he  had  passed  in  that  thrifty,  unambitious  home 
where  the  old  sofa  was  so  prominent  a  piece  of  furniture. 

Even  the  unfashionable  sofa  and  chairs  went  under 
the  hammer,  and  poor  Mrs.  E.  had  to  content  herself 
with  less  elegant  comforts. 

How  often  we  should  let  "well  enough"  alone,  in  our 
homes,  our  dress,  husbands,  wives,  and  children! 

"  Oh  !  did  you  notice  that  elegant  dress  Sophy  Est- 
more  had  on,  when  she  called  on  her  bridal  tour  ?  I  did 
not  know  which  to  admire  most,  the  dress,  the  fit,  or  hei 


HINTS    FOR    HUSBANDS.  263 

beautiful  figure — all  seemed  so  perfect.  She  looked  so 
sweet,  as  she  took  her  husband's  arm  when  they  left  the 
door — he  appeared  perfectly  happy." 

Yes,  and  did  you  know  she  was  buried  last  week, 
dressed  for  the  grave  in  her  bridal  attire  ? 

"  What  a  shabby  lace  that  is  on  Mary  Green's  neck ! 
I  would  not  wear  lace  if  I  could  not  have  something 
better  than  that."  "Indeed!"  replied  a  voice  in  the 
distance ;  "  then  Mary  Green  is  better  off  than  you ; 
for  she  is  perfectly  contented  to  wear  that  which  is 
within  the  bounds  of  her  circumstances ;  and  would  not 
have  her  dear  papa  tried  and  troubled,  to  provide  her 
with  vanities  that  are  passing  away." 


HINTS  FOR  HUSBANDS. 

THERE  is  an  article  afloat  in  the  papers  entitled 
"  Golden  Rules  for  Wives,"  which  enjoins  upon  the  ladies 
a  rather  abject  submission  to  their  husbands'  will  and 
whims.  Iron  rules,  not  golden  ones,  we  should  call 
them.  But  the  art  of  living  together  in  harmony  is  a 
very  difficult  art ;  and,  instead  of  confuting  the  posi 
tions  of  the  authors  of  the  Rules  aforesaid,  we  offer  the 
following,  as  the  substance  of  what  a  wife  likes  in  a 
husband : — 

Fidelity  is  her  heart's  first  and  most  just  demand. 
The  act  of  infidelity  a  true  wife  cannot  forgive— -it 
rudely  breaks  the  tie  that  bound  her  heart  to  his,  and 
that  tie  can  never  more  exist. 


264  HINTS    FOR    HUSBANDS. 

The  first  place  in  her  husband's  affections  no  true  wife 
can  learn  to  do  without.  When  she  loses  that,  she  has 
lost  her  husband ;  she  is  a  widow ;  and  has  to  endure 
the  pangs  of  bereavement  intensified  by  the  presence  of 
what  she  no  longer  possesses.  There  is  a  living  mummy 
in  the  house,  reminding  her  of  her  loss  in  the  most  pain 
ful  manner. 

A  woman  likes  her  husband  to  excel  in  those  qualitiet* 
which  distinguish  the  masculine  from  the  feminine  being 
such  as  strength,  courage,  fortitude,  and  judgment.  She 
wants  her  husband  to  be  wholly  a  MAN.  She  cannot 
entirely  love  one  whom  she  cannot  entirely  respect,  be 
lieve  in,  and  rely  on. 

A  wife  dearly  likes  to  have  her  husband  stand  high 
in  the  regard  of  the  community  in  which  they  reside. 
She  likes  to  be  thought  by  her  own  sex  a  tortunate  wo 
man  in  having  such  a  husband  as  she  has.  She  has  a 
taste  for  the  respectable,  desires  to  have  a  good-looking 
front  door,  and  to  keep  up  a  good  appearance  generally. 
Some  wives,  it  is  said,  carry  this  too  far ;  and  some  hus 
bands,  we  know,  are  dangerously  complaisant  in  yield 
ing  to  the  front-door  ambition  of  their  wives.  But  a 
good  husband  will  like  to  gratify  his  wife  in  this  respect 
as  far  as  he  can,  without  sacrificing  more  important 
objects. 

Perfect  sincerity  a  wife  expects,  or  at  least  has  a  right 
to  expect,  from  her  husband.  She  desires  to  know  the 
real  state  of  the  case,  however  it  may  be  concealed  from 
the  world.  It  wrings  her  heart,  and  wounds  her  pride, 
to  discover  that  her  husband  has  not  wholly  confided  in 
her.  A  man  may  profitably  consult  his  wife  on  almost 


HINTS    FOR    HUSBANDS.  265 

any  project ;  it  is  due  to  her  that  he  should  do  so,  and 
she  is  glad  to  be  consulted. 

Above  most  other  things,  a  wife  craves  from  her  hus 
band  appreciation.  The  great  majority  of  wives  lead 
lives  of  severe  and  anxious  toil.  With  unimaginable 
anguish  and  peril  to  their  own  lives,  they  become  mo 
thers.  Their  children  require  incessant  care.  "  Only 
the  eye  of  God  watches  like  a  mother's,"  says  Fanny 

\t  '  w  v 

Fern,  in  that  chapter  of  "  Ruth  Hall"  which  depicts 
with  such  power  and  truth  a  mother's  agonizing  anxie 
ties.  And  besides  her  maternal  cares,  a  wife  is  the 
queen-regent  of  a  household  kingdom.  She  has  to 
think,  and  plan,  and  work  for  everybody.  If,  in  all 
her  labours  and  cares,  she  feels  that  she  has  her  hus 
band's  sympathy  and  gratitude ;  if  he  helps  her  where 
a  man  can  help  a  woman ;  if  he  notices  her  efforts,  ap 
plauds  her  skill,  and  allows  for  her  deficiencies — all  is 
well.  But  to  endure  all  this,  and  yet  meet  with  no  ap 
preciating  word,  or  glance,  or  act  from  him  for  whom 
and  whose  she  toils  and  bears,  is  very  bitter. 

A  wife  likes  her  husband  to  show  her  all  due  respect 
in  the  presence  of  others ;  she  cannot  endure  to  be  re 
proved  or  criticised  by  him  when  others  can  hear  it. 
Indeed,  it  is  most  wrong  in  a  husband  thus  to  put  his 
wife  to  shame ;  and  we  cannot  help  secretly  admiring 
the  spirit  of  that  Frenchwoman  who,  when  her  husband 
had  so  wronged  her,  refused  ever  again  to  utter  a  word, 
and  for  twenty  years  lived  in  the  house  a  dumb  woman. 
We  admire  her  spirit,  though  not  her  mode  of  manifest 
ing  it.  Husbands  owe  the  most  profound  respect  to 
their  wives,  for  their  wives  are  the  mothers  of  their 


266  BUY   ONLY    WHAT   YOU    WANT. 

children.  No  man  has  the  slightest  claim  to  the  charac 
ter  of  a  gentleman  who  is  not  more  scrupulously  polite 
to  his  wife  than  to  any  other  woman.  We  refer  here  to 
the  essentials  of  politeness,  not  its  forms ;  we  mean 
kindness  and  justice  in  little  things. 

A  wife  likes  her  husband  to  be  considerate.  Unex 
pected  kindnesses  and  unsolicited  favours  touch  her 
heart.  She  appreciates  the  softened  tread  when  she  ia 
oick ;  she  enjoys  the  gift  brought  from  a  distance,  and 
everything  which  proves  to  her  that  her  husband  thinks 
of  her  comfort  and  her  good. 

Husband,  reflect  on  these  things  !  Your  wife  has 
confided  her  happiness  to  you.  You  can  make  it  un 
speakably  wretched,  if  you  are  ignoble  and  short-sighted. 
Let  the  .contest  between  husbands  and  wives  be  this  • 
•which  shall  do  most  for  the  happiness  of  the  other. 


BUY  ONLY  WHAT  YOU  WANT. 

To  buy  nothing  you  do  not  want  is  a  maxim  as  old 
almost  as  society  itself.  But  it  is  also  one  that  is  con 
tinually  slipping  out  of  mind,  and  which  cannot,  there 
fore,  be  brought  forward  again  too  frequently.  Spending 
money,  in  fact,  is  a  vice  common  to  human  nature. 
Where  one  man  degrades  himself  by  being  a  miser,  ten 
run  constant  peril  of  ruining  themselves  by  extrava 
gance.  It  is  so  fine  to  have  elegant  furniture,  to  live 
iu  a  handsome  house,  or  to  dress  one's  wife  and  children 


BUY  ONLY  WHAT  YOU  WANT.  267 

in  rich  apparel,  that  it  requires  an  unusual  degree  of 
firmness,  especially  in  this  prosperous  age,  to  resist  the 
temptation.  If  everybody  was  compelled  to  pay  cash 
for  such  gratifications,  there  would  he  some  slight  check 
on  this  tendency  to  useless  expenditure.  But  credit  is 
so  easily  obtained  in  this  country,  and  buyers  are  so 
sanguine  of  being  ready  when  settling  day  comes,  that 
thousands  of  families  are  induced  annually  to  cripple 
their  future  comforts,  by  indulging  in  present  follies. 
Half  the  men  who  reach  old  age  impoverished,  and  per 
haps  even  a  greater  number,  owe  their  dependent  con 
dition,  at  that  saddest  of  all  times  to  be  beggared,  to 
early  extravagance. 

If  we  were  all  to  buy  only  what  we  wanted,  this  would 
not  be.  We  are  far  from  recommending  a  niggardly 
parsimony ;  for  one  of  the  purposes  of  wealth  is  that  it 
should  be  distributed  in  encouraging  trade  and  the  arts. 
But  still  even  the  wealthiest,  with  few  exceptions,  fre 
quently  buy  what  they  do  not  want ;  while  those  less 
favoured  incessantly  violate  this  golden  rule.  The 
preacher,  lawyer,  or  physician,  attracted  by  some  new 
and  costly  book,  persuades  himself  that  his  profession 
requires  he  should  have  it,  and  spends  on  it  a  sum  that 
he  often  needs  for  more  necessary  purposes  before  the 
year  is  over.  The  wife,  charmed  by  a  new  style  of 
dress,  lavishes  away  her  money,  is  delighted  for  a  while, 
but  lives  to  repent  it,  if  she  is  a  woman  of  sense.  The 
father,  proud  of  his  daughter,  thinks  no  expense  too 
great  to  gratify  her  whims.  The  young  man,  fond  of 
horses,  does  not  stop  to  count  the  cost  when  coveting  a 
famous  trotter.  The  fashionable  couple,  who  like  to  be 


268  BUY  ONLY  WHAT  YOU  WANT 

surrounded  with  mirrors,  pictures,  and  fine  furniture 
generally,  squander  money  disproportionately  on  such 
costly  gewgaws.  Yet  all  learn,  sooner  or  later,  to  re 
gret  what  they  have  done,  since  they  find  they  havo 
added  nothing  to  their  happiness,  as  tens  of  thousands 
have  discovered  before,  after  buying  what  they  did  not 
really  want. 

Franklin's  homely  story  about  the  whistle  would  be 
well  to  be  remembered  by  us  all.  It  is  not  enough  that 
a  purchase  gratifies  us  at  the  time.  To  be  a  judicious 
expenditure,  it  should  be  such  a  one  as  we  can  recur  to 
afterwards  with  satisfaction.  If  Mrs.  A.,  when  she 
moves  into  her  new  house,  spends  so  much  money  on 
furniture  that  her  husband's  dinners  suffer  by  it,  is  he 
not  paying  too  dear  for  his  whistle  ?  If  Mrs.  B.  givea 
so  elegant  a  party  to  her  friends  that  the  housekeeping 
is  stinted  all  the  rest  of  the  winter;  if  Mrs.  C.,  by 
going  to  Cape  May  with  her  daughters,  makes  such  an 
inroad  on  her  husband's  salary,  that  his  old  coat  has  to 
last  another  winter ;  if  Mrs.  D.'s  piano  for  that  prodigy, 
"  Our  Marianne,"  takes  the  earnings  of  whole  weeks — 
what  is  all  this  but  paying  too  dear  for  the  whistle  ? 
Whenever  we  buy  what  we  don't  want,  we  deprive  our 
selves  of  things  we  really  require.  To  be  wise  is  to  err, 
if  anything,  on  the  other  side.  If  we  deny  ourselves  a 
little,  if  we  learn  to  buy  nothing  until  we  are  sure  we 
want  it,  we  shall  both  avoid  its  perils  and  extravagance 
and  discipline  our  characters.  Amid  the  hurry  and 
temptations  of  this  prosperous  age,  it  is  well  to  recall 
occasionally  these  old  maxims  of  prudence  and  wisdom, 
Time  thus  spent  is  not  wasted. 


THEY  tell  me  unseen  spirits 

Around  about  us  glide  ; 
Beside  the  stilly  waters 

Our  erring  footsteps  guide: 
'Tis  pleasant,  thus  believing 

Their  ministry  on  earth : 
I  know  an  angel  sitteth 

This  moment  by  my  hearth. 

If  false-lights,  on  life's  waters., 

To  wreck  my  soul  appear  ; 
With  finger  upward  pointing, 

She  turns  me  with  a  tear : 
'Twere  base  to  slight  the  warning, 

And  count  it  little  worth, 
Of  her,  the  loving  angel, 

That  sitteth  by  my  hearth. 

She  wins  me  with  caresses 

Fr»m  passion's  dark  defiles ; 
She  guides  me  when  I  falter, 

And  strengthens  me  with  smiles; 
It  may  be,  unseen  angels 

Beside  me  journey  forth, 
I  know  that  one  is  sitting 

This  moment  by  my  hearth. 

A  loving  wife.     0  brothers, 

An  angel  here  below  ; 
Alas !  your  eyes  are  holden 

Too  often  till  they  go  ; 
Ye  upward  look  while  grieving, 

When  they  have  passed  from  earth  ;— 
0  cherish  well,  those  sitting 

This  moment  by  the  hearth ! 


A  WORD  TO  YOUNG   HUSBANDS. 

WALKING  the  other  day  with  a  valued  friend  who  had 
been  confined  a  week  or  two  by  sickness  to  his  room,  he 
remarked  that  a  husband  might  learn  a  good  lesson  by 
being  occasionally  confined  to  his  house,  by  having  in 
this  way  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  the  cares  and 
never-ending  toils  of  his  wife,  whose  burdens  and  duties, 
and  patient  endurance,  he  might  never  have  otherwise 
understood.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  this  thought. 
Men,  especially  young  men,  are  called  by  their  business 
during  the  day  mostly  away  from  home,  returning  only 
at  the  hours  for  meals ;  and  as  they  then  see  nearly  the 
same  routine  of  duty,  they  begin  to  think  it  is  their  own 
lot  to  perform  all  the  drudgery,  and  to  be  exercised  with 
the  weight  of  care  and  responsibility.  But  such  a  man 
has  got  a  wrong  view  of  the  case ;  he  needs  an  oppor 
tunity  for  more  extended  observation ;  and  it  is  perhaps 
for  this  very  reason  that  a  kind  providence  arrests  him 
by  sickness,  that  he  may  learn  in  pain  what  he  would 
fail  to  observe  in  health. 

We  have  seen  a  good  many  things  said  to  wives,  espe 
cially  to  young  wives,  exposing  their  faults,  perhaps1 
magnifying  them,  and  expounding  to  them,  in  none  of 
the  kindest  terms,  their  duty  and  the  offices  pertaining 
to  a  woman's  sphere.  Now,  we  believe  that  wives,  as  a 
whole,  are  really  better  than  they  are  admitted  to  be. 
We  doubt  if  there  can  be  found  a  great  number  of  wives 
who  are  disagreeable  and  negligent,  without  some  pal- 


A   WORD   TO   YOUNG    HLSBANDS.  271 

pable  coldness  or  shortcoming  on  the  part  of  their  hus 
bands.  So  far  as  we  have  had  an  opportunity  for 
observation,  they  are  far  more  devoted  and  faithful  than 
those  who  style  themselves  their  lords,  and  "who,  by  the 
customs  of  society,  have  other  and  generally  more  plea- 
Bant  and  varied  duties  to  perform.  We  protest  then 
against  these  lectures  so  often  and  so  obtrusively 
addressed  to  the  ladies,  and  insist  upon  it  that  they 
must,  most  of  them,  have  been  written  by  some  fusty 
bachelors  who  know  no  better,  or  by  some  inconsiderate 
husbands  who  deserve  to  have  been  old  bachelors  to  the 
end  of  their  lives. 

But  is  there  nothing  to  be  said  on  the  other  side  ? 
Are  husbands  so  generally  the  perfect,  amiable,  injured 
beings  they  are  so  often  represented  ?  Men  sometimes 
declare  that  their  wives'  extravagance  has  picked  their 
pockets  ;  that  their  never-ceasing  tongues  have  robbed 
them  of  their  peace ;  and  their  general  disagreeableness 
has  driven  them  to  the  tavern  and  gaming-table ;  but 
this  is  generally  the  wicked  excuse  for  a  most  wicked 
life  on  their  own  part.  The  fact  is,  men  often  lose  their 
interest  in  their  homes  by  their  own  neglect  to  make 
their  homes  interesting  and  pleasant.  It  should  never 
be  forgotten  that  the  wife  has  her  rights — as  sacred 

O 

after  marriage  as  before — and  a  good  husband's  devotion 
to  the  wife  after  marriage  will  concede  to  her  quite  as 
much  attention  as  he  gallantly  did  while  a  lover.  If  it 
is  otherwise,  he  most  generally  is  at  fault. 

Take  a  few  examples.  Before  marriage,  a  young  man 
would  feel  some  delicacy  about  accepting  an  invitation 
to  spend  an  evening  in  company  where  his  lady-love  had 


272  A   WORD   TO    YOUNG    HUSBANDS. 

not  been  invited.  After  marriage,  is  he  always  as  par 
ticular?  During  the  days  of  courtship,  his  gallantry 
would  demand  that  he  should  make  himself  agreeable  to 
her ;  after  marriage,  it  often  happens  that  he  thinks 
more  of  being  agreeable  to  himself.  How  often  it  hap 
pens  that  married  men,  after  having  been  away  from 
home  the  livelong  day,  during  which  the  wife  has  toiled 
at  her  duties,  go  at  evening  to  some  place  of  amusement, 
and  leave  her  to  toil  on  alone,  uncheered  and  unhappy  ! 
How  often  it  happens  that  her  kindest  offices  pass  unob 
served  and  unrewarded  even  by  a  smile,  and  her  best 
efforts  are  condemned  by  the  fault-finding  husband  ! 

How  often  it  happens,  even  when  the  evening  is  spent 
at  home,  that  it  is  employed  in  silent  reading,  or  some 
other  way  that  does  not  recognise  the  wife's  right  to 
share  in  the  enjoyment  even  of  the  fireside ! 

Look,  ye  husbands,  a  moment,  and  remember  what 
your  wife  was  when  you  took  her,  not  from  compulsion, 
but  from  your  own  choice ;  a  choice,  based,  probably,  on 
what  you  considered  her  superiority  to  all  others.  She 
was  young,  perhaps  the  idol  of  a  happy  home ;  she  was 
gay  and  blithe  as  the  lark,  and  the  brothers  and  sisters 
at  her  father's  fireside  cherished  her  as  an  object  of 
endearment.  Yet  she  left  all  to  join  her  destiny  with 
yours ;  to  make  your  home  happy,  and  to  do  all  that 
woman's  love  could  prompt,  and  woman's  ingenuity 
devise,  to  meet  your  wishes,  and  to  lighten  the  burdens 
which  might  press  upon  you  in  your  pilgrimage.  She, 
of  course,  had  her  expectations  too.  She  could  not 
entertain  feelings  which  promised  so  much  without  form 
ing  some  idea  of  reciprocation  on  your  part ;  and  she 


A   WORD   TO   YOUNG    HUSBANDS.  273 

did  expect  you  would,  after  marriage,  perform  those 
kind  offices  of  which  you  were  so  la  vdsh  in  the  days  of 
your  betrothment. 

She  became  your  wife !  left  her  own  home  for  youra 
— burst  asunder  as  it  were,  the  bands  of  love  which  had 
bound  her  to  her  father's  fireside,  and  sought  no  other 
home  than  your  affections ;  left,  it  may  be,  the  ease  and 
delicacy  of  a  home  of  indulgence — and  now,  what  must 
be  her  feelings,  if  she  gradually  awakes  to  the  conscious 
ness  that  you  love  her  less  than  before ;  that  your  even 
ings  are  spent  abroad ;  that  you  only  come  home  at  all 
to  satisfy  the  demands  of  your  hunger,  and  to  find  a 
resting-place  for  your  head  when  weary,  or  a  nurse  for 
your  sick-chamber  when  diseased  ? 

Why  did  she  leave  the  bright  hearth  of  her  youthful 
days  ?  Why  did  you  ask  her  to  give  up  the  enjoyment 
of  a  happy  home  ?  Was  it  simply  to  darn  your  stock 
ings,  mend  your  clothes,  take  care  of  your  children,  and 
witch  over  your  sick-bed  ?  Was  it  simply  to  conduce 
to  your  own  comfort  ?  Or  was  there  some  understanding 
that  she  was  to  be  made  happy  in  her  connexion  with 
the  man  she  had  dared  to  love  ? 

Nor  is  it  a  sufficient  answer  that  you  reply  that  you 
give  her  a  home ;  that  you  feed  and  clothe  her.  You 
do  this  for  your  health.  You  would  do  it  for  an  indif 
ferent  housekeeper.  She  is  your  wife,  and  unless  you 
attend  to  her  wants,  and  some  way  answer  the  reasonable 
expectation  you  raised  by  your  attention  before  mar 
riage,  you  need  not  wonder  if  she  be  dejected,  and  her 
heart  sink  into  insensibility ;  but  if  this  be  so,  think  well 
who  is  the  cause  of  it. 
18 


A  WIFE'S  SERMON ;  OR,  HINTS  TO  HUSBANDS. 

"  HUSBANDS,  love  your  wives,  and  be  not  bitter  against 
them."  This  shall  be  my  text,  which  I  had  some  trouble 
in  finding.  Kind  admonitions,  which  the  great  apostle 
addressed  to  husbands  and  wives,  met  my  eye  ;  but  they 
were  not  the  precise  words  I  wished  to  find.  I  consulted 
"  Cruden,"  but  at  first  with  no  better  success.  I  began 
to  feel  myself  in  a  situation  similar  to  his  who  spoke  of 
"  those  beautiful  words  of  Holy  Writ,  '  He  tempers  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb.'"  But  another  effort  gained 
me  the  victory.  I  looked  for  the  "  litter1  word  in  the 
sentence,  and  there  it  is,  in  Col.  iii.  19.  Perhaps  the 
class  here  addressed  may  likewise  have  overlooked  this 
passage. 

That  young  man  who  has  just  left  Hymen's  altar, 
may  consider  Paul  "  as  rather  weak,"  to  address  such 
an  admonition  to  any  who  sustain  the  delightful  relation 
into  which  he  has  just  entered.  Very  well ;  if  he  never 
needs  it,  he  shall  be  forgiven  for  not  understanding  its 
necessity. 

Says  another,  more  mature,  "Such  commands,  of 
course,  were  intended  for  the  immoral ;  for  the  drunk 
ard,  who  leaves  his  wife  to  suffer,  or  comes  home  from 
his  midnight  revels  to  give  her  a  deeper  sense  of  wretch 
edness  ;  for  the  gambler,  who  takes  from  the  drawer  the 
Bcanty  earnings  which  his  wife  has  laid  by  for  the  hour 
of  sickness,  and  which  his  hard  heart  has  refused  to 
supply ;  for  the  faithless  husband,  who,  forgetful  of  his 


A  WIFE'S  SERMON.  275 

marriage  vow,  finds  in  the  society  of  the  "  strange  wo 
man"  an  inducement  to  forsake  his  home.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  one  so  devoted  as  Paul  to  doing  good  to  his 
fellow-men,  and  so  desirous  to  aid  his  fellow-men  in  a 
faithful  discharge  of  duty,  should  have  left  a  word  of 
caution  for  all. 

But,  friends,  look  more  carefully,  and  you  will  per 
ceive  that  the  apostle  was  addressing  a  very  different 
class  of  persons,  members  of  the  church  at  Colosse. 
professors  of  religion,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  "  in 
good  and  regular  standing." 

"  Well,"  says  another,  "I  care  not  for  whom  it  was 
written.  I  believe  a  little  common  sense  will  help  me 
to  understand  my  duty  as  a  husband  as  well  as  Paul 
did,  who  probably  was  not  a  married  man.  When  I  am 
engaged  for  the  support  of  my  wife  and.  children, 
harassed  almost  to  death  with  cares,  I  expect  when  I  go 
to  my  house  to  have  a  quiet  home,  and  to  find  my  Avife 
ready  to  receive  me.  She  has  nothing  to  do  but  the 
work  of  her  own  family,  and  there  are  only  six  of  us, 
including  the  baby.  I  wonder  what  she  finds  to  do. 
Reads,  probably ;  she  always  had  a  fondness  for  books, 
and  now  I  think  of  it,  I  found  a  volume  on  the  foot  of 
the  cradle.  I  even  spoke  to  her  once  because  she  let 
the  children  play  with  my  books ;  but  she  was  the  guilty 
one,  I  suspect,  after  all,  as  she  said  nothing  in  reply. 
Well,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  propose  that  she  take  in  sewing, 
or  bind  shoes,  and  help  me  support  the  family.  I  can't 
d«  everything." 

If  I  could  utter  a  word  in  the  ear  of  this  man,  J 
would  say,  "  It  is  pleasant  to  find  you  so  well  under 


276  A  WIFE'S  SERMON. 

et«.nd  the  peculiarly  easy  lot  of  your  wife,  and  the  de 
lightfully  comfortable  situation  she  is  called  to  fill  for 
your  special  benefit.  But  then  here  is  the  text ;  it  is 
meant  for  some  one — '  Husbands,  love  your  wives,  bo  not 
BITTER  against  them.'  Your  remarks  have  an  air  of 
severity,  and  I  will  draw  my  bow  at  a  venture." 

"  Bitter"  is  a  word  which  conveys  an  unpleasant  idea. 
Bid  you  never  notice  the  sad  contortions  of  a  child's 
face  when  he  takes  a  disagreeable  medicine  ?  I  have 
known  a  babe  entirely  weaned  by  just  applying  a  bitter 
substance  to  the  fountain  from  which  it  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  receive  its  nourishment.  It  turned  away  with 
loathing  and  disgust.  Can  it  be  that  bitter  words  would 
ever  cause  a  wife  to  turn  from  the  plighted  love  of  her 
youth  ?  Try  not  the  dangerous  experiment. 

I  have  seen  the  unshed  tear  tremble  in  the  eye,  as 
some  careless,  thoughtless,  but  harsh  word  of  a  husband 
caused  a  mental  struggle,  and  told  of  the  more  than 
childless  self-control  which  his  wife  possessed.  I  knew  a 
man  whose  praise  was  in  all  the  churches,  a  professor  in 
one  of  our  theological  schools,  and  I  am  not  quite  sure 
that  he  did  not  write  a  commentary  on  Paul,  who  needed 
this  admonition.  He  never  used  his  wife  unkindly,  as 
the  world  understands  that  word  ;  but  every  day  he  said 
unkind,  unpleasant  things,  which  seemed  to  her  very 
"bitter."  He  was  quite  an  alchemist ;  he  always  brought 
his  crucible  to  the  table  when  he  partook  of  his  meals, 
and  among  the  pleasant  viands  prepared  under  the  care 
ful  eye  of  his  wife,  he  always  found  something  which 
was  not  right,  something  bitter  for  his  wife.  He  sleeps 
in  the  village  jhurchyard  now.  and  his  intellectual  a,d- 


A  WIFE'S  SERMON.  2  r7 

ra  reared  a  tablet  to  his  memory,  and  over  the 
unpleasant  remembrances  of  his  private  life  charitable 
friends  draw  a  veil,  which  we  would  not  remove,  and 
offer  the  apology,  "  He  was  a  very  nervous  man." 

To-night,  when  you  have  taken  your  tea,  got  your 
letters  and  papers  from  the  post-office,  read  them,  and 
when  you  feel  inclined  to  doze  in  your  easy  chair  (with 
your  feet  comfortably  resting  on  the  stove,  or  in  another 
chair),  hear  a  word  of  remonstrance.  Do  not  speak 
again  as  unkindly  as  you  did  when  you  came  home,  and 
found  the  baby  crying,  and  the  older  ones  rather  noisy : 
do  not  call  your  home  a  "bedlam,"  and  tell  your  better 
half  "you  do  wish  she  would  give  the  children  their 
supper  earlier,  and  get  them  to  bed,  so  that  you  can 
have  a  little  quiet."  Perhaps  you  were  tired,  very  likely 
it  was  so  ;  but  your  wife,  with  "  nothing  to  do"  but  her 
own  work,  and  see  to  her  children,  is  more,  far  more 
wearied  than  you  ;  and  if  you  knew  how  her  head  aches, 
and  how  her  exhausted  nature  calls  for  repose ;  if  you 
had  the  love  for  her  which  you  owe  her,  you  would  not 
need  to  be  told  "  Husbands,  love  your  wives,  and  be  not 
BITTER  against  them." 

Hear  a  few  words  more.  While  your  wife  is  plying 
her  needle,  let  me  amuse  you.  Now,  be  honest,  and  say 
if  the  duties  of  your  wife  do  not  occupy  more  of  your 
thoughts,  and  are  not  more  familiar  to  you  than  you 
own  ?  Do  you  not  oftener  inquire  at  the  bookstore  for 
a  treatise  which  relates  to  her,  as  a  woman,  wife,  OT 
mother,  than  for  one  which  relates  to  men  as  husbands 
and  fathers  ? 

The  world  is  full  of  books  for  woman ;  she  is  told  cf 


*27S  A  WIFE'S  SERMON. 

responsibilities  which  angels  might  tremble  to  assume ; 
anon  she  is  taught  that  man  is  creation's  lord  and  her 
inferior  position  is  to  act  as  his  "  waiter,"  to  take  care 
of  his  children,  his  house,  to  see  to  his  wardrobe,  and 
BO  all  round  the  circle  of  her  duties.  Sometimes  she 
gets  so  jostled  about  she  almost  forgets  where  her  last 
resting-place  was,  and  wishes  success  to  the  Woman's 
Rights  Convention,  so  that  she  may  unmolested  stand 
side  by  side  with  proud  man,  whose  right  and  might  are 
never  practically  questioned. 

Oh,  husband  !  did  you  see  the  colour  mount  to  your 
wife's  temples,  the  other  day,  when  in  the  presence  of 
that  visiter  you  brought  home,  you  noticed  some  little 
deficiencies  at  the  table,  instead  of  passing  them  by? 
She  felt  as  badly  as  you,  because  the  meat  was  not 
cooked  just  as  she  wished,  and  the  castor  was  not  pro 
perly  dusted.  You  should  remember  that  dinner  was 
prepared  when  the  babe  was  crying  for  its  mother ;  per 
haps  you  will  recollect  that  you  looked  into  the  kitchen, 
and  asked  her  "  if  she  could  not  keep  the  child  still,  for 
you  could  not  hear  yourself  speak."  Was  not  that  a. 
bitter  word  ?  Ask  her. 

Listen,  while  I  tell  you  a  part  of  what  she  is  expected 
to  do  every  year  of  her  life.  How  many  shirts  do  you 
expect  her  to  make  for  you  ?  How  many  handkerchiefs 
to  hem  ?  How  many  vests  and  pants  to  be  cut  and 
made  ?  Coats  and  collars  you  probably  get  already  made. 
How  many  dresses  must  she  manufacture  for  herself  and 
children?  How  many  little  pairs  cf  drawers  and  skirts 
for  the  children,  to  fit  them  for  the  ever-varying  season  ? 
HO.T  many  aprons  are  to  be  prepared  ?  And  when  all 


A  WIFE'S  SERMON  279 

these  are  in  readiness,  with  other  articles  which  I  might 
name,  what  is  to  be  done  with  them  ?  When  worn,  they 
must  be  washed,  ironed,  and  mended,  over  and  over 
again,  by  her  industry.  Did  you  ever  think  how  many 
meals  she  prepares  in  a  year  ?  How  many  times  the 
table  is  laid,  the  dishes  removed  and  washed,  the  knives 
scoured,  the  floors  swept,  the  lamps  trimmed,  the  beds 
made,  the  furniture  dusted,  and  the  children  washed, 
dressed,  and  kindly  cared  for  ?  All  the  time  must  she 
feel  this  pressure  of  labour  and  anxiety,  and  very  like 
she  is  sinking  slowly  (her  constitution  giving  away, 
although  unnoticed  by  your  familiar  eye),  until  consump 
tion  is  upon  her,  and  she  is  gone ;  the  "  place  that  knew 
her  knows  her  no  more." 

Now,  tell  me,  do  you  really  think  that  she  will  have 
to  take  in  shirts  to  make,  or  something  else,  to  kwp  her 
from  wasting  her  time  in  reading  f  Think  of  all  this, 
and  suppress  that  bitter  word,  because  a  button  is  miss 
ing  on  your  coat,  or  the  string  was  forgotten  which 
should  have  been  sewed  to  your  dickey.  It  is  little 
things  which  make  the  bitterness  as  well  as  tho  sweetness 
of  life. 

Your  wife  is  under  no  greater  obligation  to  have  a 
smile  of  welcome  on  your  return,  than  you  are  to  bring 
perpetual  sunshine  to  the  hearthstone ;  and  if  she  fails 
sometimes,  and  you  find  her  irritable  and  unpleasant, 
forgive  it,  and  pass  it  by.  You  know  not  the  trials  and 
vexations  she  has  met ;  speak  gently,  very  gently  ;  and 
let  no  root  of  bitterness  spring  up  to  trouble  you.  DC 
not  tell  her  she  has  altered,  and  that  she  can  bear  no 
thing  from  you,  she  has  become  so  sensitive;  tell  her 


280  A  WIFE'S  SERMON. 

not  of  her  faded  cheeks,  and  her  hair,  which  is  turning 
prematurely  gray.  She  does  not  like  to  hear  you  make 
such  remarks,  even  if  she  knows  they  are  true.  Ask 
yourself  rather,  why  it  is  so  ?  Is  it  the  effect  of  a  life 
of  ease  and  carelessness,  or  a  life  of  care  and  labour  for 
you  and  your  family  ? 

I  could  tell  you  of  a  poor  labouring  mechanic,  on 
whom  the  untoward  gales  of  adversity  have  long  beat ; 
but  when  sheltered  in  the  haven  of  a  happy,  though 
humble  home,  he  cares  but  little  what  rages  without. 
Like  Wordsworth's  peasants,  seldom  through  the  long 
winter  does  the  wife  see  the  face  of  her  husband ;  or  the 
children  of  their  father  by  the  light  of  the  sun,  except 
on  the  hours  of  the  holy  day.  The  table  is  neatly  spread 
each  evening  for  the  morrow's  early  breakfast.  Such 
preparations  as  can  be  made  are  in  readiness,  and  while 
the  stars  are  yet  shining,  long  ere  the  day  dawneth,  tha 
husband  and  father  prepares  anew  for  his  daily  toil.  Ha 
chooses  to  make  his  own  coffee,  and  eat  his  breakfast 
alone,  if  thereby  his  loved  ones  can  slumber  a  little 
longer.  He  is  cheered  amid  his  labours  by  thoughts  of 
them,  and  he  knows  that  when  the  mother  and  dear 
children  kneel  at  the  altar  of  morning  prayer,  the  ab 
sent  one  will  never  be  forgotten,  and  the  petition  will 
ascend  that  "  as  his  day,  so  his  strength  may  be." 

As  he  returns  wearied  to  his  family  at  night,  it  is  not 
to  say  bitter  thingb,  or  to  look  Utterly.  The  babe  reaches 
out  her  arms  for  mm,  and  older  ones  cling  around  his 
neck,  and  he  envies  not  that  man  who  is  displeased  be 
cause  the  custard  is  not  seasoned  to  his  taste,  or  the  beef 
steak  prepared  precisely  according  to  his  wishes.  After 


A  WIPE'S  SERMON.  281 

the  evening  meal,  and  prayers,  the  children  are  told 
some  pretty  story,  and  laid  to  rest  by  a  father's  hand, 
and  he  murmurs  not  at  his  lot,  nor  sees  aught  for  which 
to  murmur.  Proud  man  may  smile  with  derision  at  this 
scene,  but  God  does  not.  Hard  is  the  road  they  travel, 
though  it  was  not  always  so.  The  world  cares  but  little 
for  them ;  and  they  covet  not  its  treacherous  smiles. 
That  husband  can  enjoy  the  pleasant  converse  and  affec- 
tion  of  his  family,  though  there  may  be  those  that  whis 
per,  "  He  must  have  a  shiftless  wife." 

Full  well  he  knows  and  appreciates  the  self-denial, 
cares,  and  labours  she  is  every  day  called  to  bear.  Well, 
too,  does  he  remember  when  her  eyes  became  sunken,  when 
the  hue  of  the  rose  faded  from  her  fair  cheek,  and  when 
her  dark  glossy  hair  turned  by  sickness,  and  not  by  age ; 
and  he  is  fully  prepared  to  echo  the  language  of  his  dear 
children,  as  with  partial  eyes  they  exclaim,  "  Mother, 
dear  mother,  how  pretty  you  are !" 

I  have  told  you  a  true  story  of  humble  life,  cheered 
by  affection  and  trust  in  God.  If  in  a  different  station 
you  would  find  such  joys  and  such  dispositions,  read  that 
book  which  our  friend  prizes  highly,  and  in  which  he 
found  the  rules  that  regulated  his  intercourse  with  his 
family. 

And  let  me  say,  in  parting,  that  if  the  love  has  lan 
guished  which  was  once  strong  in  your  heart,  oh,  kindle 
it  yet  again,  for  there  are  dark  days  in  store  for  you, 
when  you  will  need  all  the  cheering  influence  its  bright 
ness  and  warmth  can  yield,  all  the  sympathy  and  sup 
port  which  that  wounded  and  neglected  heart  can  bestow. 
"  Husbands,  love  your  wives,  and  be  not  BITTER  against 
them." 


MY   WIFE. 

WWTTEN  WHILE   EECOTERIXa    FROM   A   SEVERE   SJCTUMK. 

I  HEARD  her  oh,  how  cautiously, 

Open  my  bed-room  door  ; 
I  heard  her  step  as  noiselessly, 

(To  my  couch)  across  the  floor. 
I  felt  her  hands  my  temples  press, 

Her  lips  just  touching  mine: 
And  in  my  anguish  and  distress, 

'Twere  sinful  to  repine. 
Our  pilgrimage  is  nearly  through — 

We've  passed  life's  mountain  brow; 
I  thought  I  loved  her  years  ago — 

I  know  I  love  her  now. 

Her  face  was  hovering  over  mine — 

Her  warm  tears  on  my  cheek  ; 
Her  whispered  prayer  of  thought  diving 

Rose  fervently  but  meek  ; 
Her  bosom  rested  on  my  arm  ; 

I  felt  its  troublous  throe  ; 
I  knew  the  cause  of  its  alarm  ; 

I  knew  its  source  of  wow , 
And  then  the  blood,  my  system  through. 

Came  pressing  on  my  brow — 
I  thought  I  loved  her  years  ago — 

I  know  I  love  her  now. 

Thus  watched  that  tired  and  patient  one, 

By  night  as  well  as  day, 
In  sadness  and  almost  alone, 

Till  weeks  had  passed  away; 


A   TRUE   WIFE.  283 

Bereft  of  sleep — deprived  of  rest — 

Oppressed — borne  down  with  care, 
Till,  oh !  her  labours  have  been  blessed, 

For  God  has  heard  her  prayer. 
Her  cheek  resumes  its  wonted  glow, 

And  placid  is  her  brow — 
I  thought  I  loved  her  years  ago — 

I  know  I  love  her  now. 


A    TRUE    WIFE. 

SHE  is  no  true  wife  who  sustains  not  her  husband  in 
the  day  of  calamity ;  who  is  not,  when  the  world's  great 
frown  makes  the  heart  chill  with  anguish,  his  guardian 
angel,  growing  brighter  and  more  beautiful  as  misfor 
tunes  crowd  around  his  path.  Then  is  the  time  for  a 
trial  of  her  gentleness — then  is  the  time  for  testing 
whether  the  sweetness  of  her  temper  beams  only  with  a 
transient  light,  or,  like  the  steady  glory  of  the  morning 
star,  shines  as  brightly  under  the  clouds.  Has  she 
smiles  just  as  charming  ?  Does  she  say,  "  Affliction 
cannot  touch  our  purity,  and  should  not  quench  our 
love  ?"  Does  she  try,  by  happy  little  inventions,  to  lift 
from  his  sensitive  spirit  the  burden  of  thought  ? 

There  are  wives — no,  there  are  beings  who,  when 
dark  hours  come,  fall  to  repining  and  upbraiding — 
thus  adding  to  outside  anxiety  harrowing  scenes  of  do 
mestic  strife — as  if  all  the  blame  in  the  world  would  make 
one  hair  white  or  black,  or  change  the  decree  gone  forth. 
Such  know  not  that  our  darkness  is  Heaven's  light — our 


284  THE   DYING   CHILD. 

trials  are  but  steps  in  a  golden  ladder,  by  which,  if  -we 
rightly  ascend,  we  may  at  last  gain  that  eternal  light, 
and  bathe  for  ever  in  its  fullness  and  beauty. 

" Is  that  all?"  and  the  gentle  face  of  the  wife  beamed 
with  joy.  Her  husband  had  been  on  the  verge  of  dis 
traction — all  his  earthly  possessions  were  gone,  and  he 
feared  the  result  of  her  knowledge,  she  had  been  so 
tenderly  cared  for  all  her  life !  But,  says  Irving's 
beautiful  story,  "  a  friend  advised  him  to  give  not  sleep 
to  his  eyes,  nor  slumber  to  his  eyelids,  until  he  had  un 
folded  to  her  his  hapless  case." 

And  that  was  her  answer,  with  the  smile  of  an  angel 
— "Is  that  all?  I  feared  by  your  sadness  it  was  worse. 
Let  these  things  be  taken — all  this  splendour,  let  it  go ! 
I  care  not  for  it — I  only  care  for  my  husband's  love  and 
confidence.  You  shall  forget  in  my  affection  that  you 
ever  were  in  prosperity — only  still  love  me,  and  I  will 
aid  you  to  bear  these  little  reverses  with  cheerfulness." 

Still  love  her !  a  man  must  reverence,  ay,  and  liken 
her  to  the  very  angels,  for  such  a  woman  is  a  living 
revelation  of  Heaven. 


THE   DYING   CHILD. 

WE  take  from  "  Household  Words"  the  touching  con 
clusion  of  a  story  entitled  "The  Three  Sisters."  The 
youngest  sister,  Gabrielle,  has  been  cast  off  by  her  two 
elder  sisters,  Joanna  and  Bertha,  hard,  stern  women, 
because  she  clung  to  her  mother,  who  had  disgraced 


THE   DYING    CHILD.  285 

them.  Years  go  by,  and  one  of  the  sisters  is  removed 
to  another  world.  The  story  proceeds  : — 

It  was  a  burial  in  a  village  churchyard,  and  standing 
by  an  open  grave  there  was  one  mourner  only,  a  woman 
— Bertha  Vaux.  Alone,  in  sadness  and  silence,  with 
few  tears — for  she  was  little  used  to  weep — she  stood 
and  looked  upon  her  sister's  funeral ;  stood  and  saw  the 
coffin  lowered,  and  heard  the  first  handful  of  earth  fall 
rattling  on  the  coffin  lid ;  then  turned  away,  slowly,  to 
seek  her  solitary  house.  The  few  spectators  thought 
her  cold  and  heartless ;  perhaps,  if  they  could  have 
raised  that  black  veil,  they  would  have  seen  such  sorrow 
in  her  face  as  might  have  moved  the  hearts  of  most  of 
them. 

The  sun  shone  warmly  over  hill  and  vale  that  sum 
mer's  day,  but  Bertha  Vaux  shivered  as  she  stepped 
within  the  shadow  of  her  lonely  house.  It  was  so  cold 
there ;  so  cold  and  damp  and  dark,  as  if  the  shadow  of 
that  death  that  had  entered  it  Avas  still  lingering  around. 
The  stunted  evergreens,  on  which,  since  they  first  grew, 
no  sunlight  had  ever  fallen,  no  single  ray  of  golden 
light  to  brighten  their  dark,  sad  leaves  for  years,  looked 
gloomier,  darker,  sadder,  than  they  had  ever  looked  be 
fore  ;  the  very  house,  with  its  closed  shutters — all  closed, 
except  one  in  the  room  where  the  dead  had  lain — seemed 
mourning  for  the  stern  mistress  it  had  lost.  A  lonely 
woman  now,  lonely  and  sad,  was  Bertha  Vaux. 

She  sat  in  the  summer  evening  in  her  silent,  cheerless 
room.  It  was  so  very  still,  not  even  a  breath  of  wind 
to  stir  the  trees ;  no  voice  of  living  thing  to  break  upon 
her  solitude ;  no  sound  even  of  a  single  footstep  on  the 


286  THE   DYING    CHILD 

dusty  rDad;  but  in  the  solitude  that  was  around  her, 
countless  thoughts  seemed  springing  into  life;  things 
long  forgotten  ;  feelings  long  smothered  ,  hopes  once 
bright — bright  as  the  opening  of  her  life  had  been,  that 
had  faded  and  been  buried  long  ago. 

She  thought  of  the  time  when  she  and  her  sister,  fif 
teen  years  ago,  had  first  come  to  the  lonely  house  where 
now  she  was  ;  of  a  few  years  later — two  or  three — when 
another  younger  sister  had  joined  them  there  ;  and  it 
seemed  to  Bertha,  looking  back,  as  if  the  house  had 
sometimes  then  been  filled  with  sunlight.  The  dark 
room  in  which  she  sat  had  once  been  lighted  up — was  it 
with  the  light  from  Gabrielle's  bright  eyes  ?  In  these 
long  sad  fifteen  years,  that  little  time  stood  out  so  clearly, 
BO  hopefully  ;  it  brought  the  tears  to  Bertha's  eyes, 
thinking  of  it  in  her  solitude.  And  how  had  it  ended  ? 
For  ten  years  nearly,  now — for  ten  long  years — the 
name  of  Gabrielle  had  never  been  spoken  in  that  house. 
The  light  was  gone — extinguished  in  a  moment,  sud 
denly  ;  a  darkness  deeper  than  before  had  ever  since 
fallen  on  the  lonely  house. 

The  thought  of  the  years  that  had  passed  since  then 
— of  their  eventlessness  and  weary  sorrow;  and  then 
the  thought  of  the  last  scene  of  all — that  scene  which 
still  was  like  a  living  presence  to  her — her  sister's  death. 

Joanna  Vaux  had  been  cold,  stern,  and  unforgiving 
to  the  last ;  meeting  death  unmoved ;  repenting  of  no 
hard  thing  that  she  had  done  throughout  her  sad,  stern 
life ;  entering  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  fear 
Icssly.  But  that  cold  death -bed  struck  upon  the  heart 
of  the  solitary  woman  who  watched  beside  ft,  and 


THE   DYING   CHILD.  287 

wakened  thoughts  and  doubts  there,  which  would  not 
rest.  She  wept  now  as  she  thought  of  it,  Badly  and 
quietly,  and  some  murmured  words  burst  frori  her  lips, 
which  sounded  like  a  prayer — not  for  herself  only. 

Then,  from  her  sister's  death-bed,  she  went  far,  far 
back — to  her  own  childhood — and  a  scene  rose  up  before 
her ;  one  that  she  had  closed  her  eyes  on  many  a  time 
before,  thinking  vainly  that  so  she  could  crush  it  from 
her  heart;  but  now  she  did  not  try  to  force  it  back. 
The  dark  room  where  she  sat,  the  gloomy,  sunless  house, 
seemed  fading  from  her  sight ;  the  long,  long  years,  with 
their  weary  train  of  shame  and  suffering — all  were  for 
gotten.  She  was  in  her  old  lost  home  again — the  home 
where  she  was  born ;  she  saw  a  sunny  lawn,  embowered 
•with  trees,  each  tree  familiar  to  her  and  remembered 
well,  and  she  herself,  a  happy  child,  was  standing  there ; 
and  by  her  side — with  soft  arms  twining  round  her,  with 
tender  voice,  and  gentle,  loving  eyes,  and  bright  hair 
glittering  in  the  sunlight — there  was  one ! 

Oh,  Bertha !  hide  thy  face  and  weep.  She  was  sc 
lovely  and  so  loving,  so  good  and  true,  so  patient  and 
BO  tender,  then.  Oh !  how  couldst  thou  forget  it  all, 
and  steel  thy  heart  against  her,  and  vow  the  cruel  vow 
never  to  forgive  her  sin  ?  Thy  mother — thy  own  mother, 
Bertha,  think  of  it. 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  window  beside  which  she 
8at,  and  through  her  blinding  tears  Bertha  looked  up, 
and  saw  a  woman  standing  there,  holding  by  the  hand 
a  little  child.  Her  face  was  very  pale  and  worn,  with 
sunken  eyes  and  cheeks ;  her  dress  was  mean  and  poor. 
She  looked  haggard  and  weary,  and  weak  and  ill;  bu* 


283  THE    DYING    CHILD. 

Bertha  knew  that  it  was  Gabrielle  come  back.  She 
could  not  speak,  for  such  a  sudden  rush  of  joy  came  to 
her  softened  heart  that  all  words  seemed  swallowed  up 
in  it ;  such  deep  thankfulness  for  the  forgiveness  that 
seemed  given  her,  that  her  first  thought  was  not  a  wel 
come,  but  a  prayer. 

Gabrielle  stood  without,  looking  at  her  with  her  sad 
eyes. 

"  We  are  all  alone,"  "aid  she,  "  and  very  poor ;  will 
you  take  us  in  ?" 

Sobbing  with  pity  and  with  joy,  Bertha  rose  from  her 
seat  and  hurried  to  the  door.  Trembling,  she  drew  the 
wanderers  in  ;  then  falling  on  her  sister's  neck,  her  whole 
heart  melted,  and  she  cried,  with  gushing  tears, 

"  Gabrielle,  dear  sister  Gabrielle,  I,  too,  am  all 
alone !" 

The  tale  that  Gabrielle  had  to  tell  was  full  enough  of 
sadness.  They  had  lived  together,  she  and  her  mother, 
for  about  a  year,  very  peacefully,  almost  happily ;  and 
then  the  mother  died,  and  Gabrielle  soon  after  married 
one  vho  had  little  to  give  her  but  his  love.  And  after 
that  the  years  passed  on  with  many  cares  and  griefs — 
for  they  were  very  poor,  and  he  not  strong — but  with  a 
great  love  ever  between  them,  which  softened  the  pain 
of  all  they  had  to  bear.  At  last,  after  being  long  ill, 
he  died,  and  poor  Gabrielle  and  her  child  were  left  to 
struggle  on  alone. 

"  I  think  I  should  have  died,"  she  said,  as,  weeping, 
ehe  told  her  story  to  her  sister,  "if  it  had  not  been  for 
my  boy ;  and  I  could  so  well  have  borne  to  die ;  but, 
Bertha,  I  could  not  leave  him  to  starve !  It  pierced  my 


THE   DYING    CHILD.  289 

heart  with  a  pang  so  bitter  that  I  cannot  speak  of  it,  to 
see  his  little  face  grow  daily  paler  ;  his  little  feeble  form 
become  daily  feebler  and  thinner ;  to  watch  the  sad,  un- 
childlike  look  fixing  itself  hourly  deeper  in  his  sweet 
eyes — so  mournful,  so  uncomplaining,  so  full  of  misery. 
The  sight  killed  me  day  by  day ;  and  then  at  last,  in 
my  despair,  I  said  to  myself  that  I  would  come  again 
to  you.  I  thought,  sister — I  hoped — that  you  would 
take  my  darling  home,  and  then  I  could  have  gone  away 
and  died.  But  God  bless  you ! — God  bless  you  for  the 
greater  thing  that  you  have  done,  my  kind  sister  Bertha  ! 
Yes — kiss  me,  sister  dear  ;  it  is  so  sweet.  I  never 
thought  to  feel  a  sister's  kiss  again." 

Then  kneeling  down  by  Gabrielle's  side,  with  a  low 
voice  Bertha  said, 

"I  have  thought  of  many  things,  to-day.  Before  you 
came,  Gabrielle,  my  heart  was  very  full ;  for  in  the  still 
evening,  as  I  sat  alone,  the  memories  of  many  years 
came  back  to  me  as  they  have  not  done  for  very  long. 
I  thought  of  my  two  sisters ;  how  the  one  had  ever  been 
to  good  and  loving  and  true-hearted  ;  the  other — though 
fihe  was  just,  or  believed  herself  to  be  so — so  hard,  and 
stern,  and  harsh — as,  God  forgive  me,  Gabrielle,  I,  too, 
have  been.  I  thought  of  this,  and  understood  it  clearly, 
as  I  had  never  done  before ;  and  then  my  thoughts  went 
back,  and  rested  on  my  mother — on  our  old  home — on 
all  the  things  that  I  had  loved  so  well,  long  ago,  and 
thai  for  years  had  been  crushed  down  in  my  heart  and 
smothered  there.  Oh,  Gabrielle,  such  things  rushed 
back  upon  me ;  such  thoughts  of  her  whom  we  have 
scornod  so  many  years ;  such  dreams  of  happy  by  gone 


290  THE   DYING    CHILD. 

days ;  such  passionate  regrets ;  such  hope,  awakening 
from  its  long,  long  sleep — no,  sister,  let  me  weep — do 
not  wipe  the  tears  away  ;  let  me  tell  you  of  my  penitence 
and  grief — it  does  me  good ;  my  heart  is  so  full — S3  full 
that  I  must  speak  now,  or  it  would  burst !" 

"  Then  you  shall  speak  to  me,  and  tell  me  all,  dear 
sister.  Ah  !  we  have  both  suffered — we  will  weep  to 
gether.  Lie  down  beside  me ;  see,  there  is  room  here 
for  both.  Yes  ;  lay  your  head  upon  me  ;  rest  it  upon 
my  shoulder.  Give  me  your  hand  now — ah !  how  thin 
it  is — almost  as  thin  as  mine.  Poor  sister  Bertha  !  poor, 
kind  sister !" 

So  gently  Gabrielle  soothed  her,  forgetting  her  own 
grief  and  weariness  in  Bertha's  more  bitter  suffering 
and  remorse.  It  was  very  beautiful  to  see  how  tenderly 
and  patiently  she  did  it,  and  how  her  gentle  words 
calmed  down  the  other's  passionate  sorrow.  So  different 
from  one  another  their  grief  was.  Gabrielle's  was  a 
slow,  weary  pain,  which,  day  by  day,  had  gradually 
withered  her,  eating  its  way  into  her  heart ;  then  rest 
ing  there,  fixing  itself  there  for  ever.  Bertha's  was 
like  the  quick,  sudden  piercing  of  a  knife — a  violent 
sorrow,  that  did  its  work  in  hours  instead  of  years,  con 
vulsing  body  and  soul  for  a  little  while,  purifying  them 
as  with  a  sharp  fire,  then  passing  away  and  leaving  no 
aching  pain  behind,  but  a  new  cleansed  spirit. 

In  the  long  summer  twilight — the  beautiful  summer 
twilight  that  never  sinks  into  perfect  night — these  two 
women  lay  side  by  side  together;  she  that  was  oldest  in 
suffering  still  comforting  the  other,  until  Bertha's  tears 
were  dried,  and,  exhausted  with  the  grief  that  was  so 


THE    DYING    CHILI;  291 

new  to  her,  she  lay  silent  in  Gabrielle's  arms — both 
silent,  looking  into  the  summer  night,  and  thinking  of 
the  days  that  were  for  ever  past.  And  sleeping  at  their 
feet  lay  Gabrielle's  child,  not  forgotten  by  her  watchful 
love,  though  the  night  had  deepened  so  that  she  could 
not  see  him  where  he  lay. 

"We  will  not  stay  here,  sister,"  Bertha  had  said. 
"  This  gloomy  house  will  always  make  us  sad.  It  is  so 
dark  and  cold  here,  and  Willie,  more  than  any  of  us, 
needs  the  sunlight  to  strengthen  and  cheer  him,  poor 
boy." 

"And  I,  too,  shall  be  glad  to  leave  it,"  Gabrielle 
answered. 

So  they  went.  They  did  not  leave  the  village ;  it 
was  a  pretty,  quiet  place,  and  was  full  of  old  recollec 
tions  to  them — more  bitter  than  sweet,  perhaps,  most 
of  them — but  still  such  as  it  would  have  been  pain  to 
separate  themselves  from  entirely,  as,  indeed,  it  is  al 
ways  sad  to  part  from  things  and  places  which  years, 
either  of  joy  or  sorrow,  have  made  us  used  to.  So  they 
did  not  leave  it,  but  chose  a  little  cottage,  a  mile  or  so 
from  their  former  house — a  pleasant  little  cottage  in  a 
dell,  looking  to  the  south,  with  honeysuckle  and  ivy 
twining  together  over  it,  up  to  the  thatched  roof.  A 
cheerful  little  nook  it  was,  not  over  bright  or  gay,  but 
shaded  with  large  trees  all  round  it,  through  whose 
green  branches  the  sunlight  came,  softened  and  mel 
lowed,  into  the  quiet  rooms.  An  old  garden,  too,  there 
was,  closed  in  all  round  with  elm-trees — a  peaceful, 
quiet  place,  where  one  would  love  to  wander,  or  to  lie 
for  hours  upon  the  grass,  looking  through  the  greeu 
leaves  upwards  to  the  calm  blue  sky. 


292  THE   DYING   CHILD. 

To  Gabrielle,  wearied  with  her  sorrow,  this  place  was 
like  an  oasis  in  the  desert.  It  was  so  new  a  thing  to 
her  to  find  rest  anywhere ;  to  find  one  little  spot  whero 
she  could  lay  her  down,  feeling  no  care  for  the  morrow. 
Like  one  exhausted  with  long  watching,  she  seemed  now 
for  a  time  to  fall  asleep. 

The  summer  faded  into  autumn ;  the  autumn  into 
winter.  A  long,  cold  winter  it  was,  the  snow  lying  for 
weeks  together  on  the  frozen  ground ;  the  bitter,  with 
ering  east  wind  moaning  day  and  night,  through  the 
great  branches  of  the  bare  old  elms,  swaying  them  to 
and  fro,  and  strewing  the  snowy  earth  with  broken 
boughs ;  a  cold  and  bitter  winter,  withering  not  only 
trees  and  shrubs,  but  sapping  out  the  life  from  human 
hearts. 

He  was  a  little  delicate  boy,  that  child  of  Gabrielle's. 
To  look  at  him,  it  seemed  a  wonder  how  he  ever  could 
have  lived  through  all  their  poverty  and  daily  struggles 
to  get  bread ;  how  that  little,  feeble  body  had  not  sunk 
into  its  grave  long  ago.  In  the  bright  summer's  days 
a  ray  of  sunlight  had  seemed  to  pierce  to  the  little 
frozen  heart,  -and,  warming  the  chilled  blood  once  more, 
had  sent  it  flowing  through  his  veins,  tinging  the  pale 
cheek  with  rose ;  but  the  rose  faded  as  the  summer 
passed  away,  and  the  little  marble  face  was  pale  as  ever 
when  the  winter  snow  began  to  fall ;  the  large  dark 
eyes,  which  had  reflected  the  sunbeams  for  a  few  short 
months,  were  heavy  and  dim  again.  And  then  presently 
there  came  another  change.  A  spot  of  crimson — a 
deep  rod  rose — not  pale  and  dehcate  like  the  last, 
glowed  otteu  ou  each  hollow  cheek;  u  briiiianr.  light 


THE  DYING   CHILD.  293 

burned  in  the  feverish,  restless  eye ;  a  hollow,  painful 
cough  shook  the  little  emaciated  frame.  So  thin  he  was, 
BO  feeble,  so  soon  wearied.  Day  by  day  the  small,  thin 
hand  grew  thinner  and  more  transparent;  the  gentle 
voice  and  childish  laugh  lower  and  feebler;  the  sweet 
smile  sweeter,  and  fainter,  and  sadder. 

And  Gabrielle  saw  it  all,  and,  bowing  to  the  earth 
in  bitter  mourning,  prepared  herself  for  this  last  great 
sorrow. 

The  spring  came  slowly  on — slowly,  very  slowly. 
The  green  leaves  opened  themselves,  struggling  in  their 
birth  with  the  cold  wind.  It  was  very  clear  and  bright; 
the  sun  shone  all  day  long ;  but  for  many  weeks  there 
had  been  no  rain,  and  the  ground  was  quite  parched  up. 

"No,  Willie,  dear,"  Gabrielle  said,  "you  mustn't  go 
out  to-day.  It  is  too  cold  for  you  yet,  dear  boy." 

"  But,  indeed,  it  isn't  cold,  mother.  Feel  here,  where 
the  sun  is  falling,  how  warm  it  is ;  put  your  hand  upon 
it.  Oh,  mother,  let  me  go  out !"  poor  Willie  said,  im 
ploringly.  "  I  am  so  weary  of  the  hours.  I  won't  try 
to  run  about,  only  let  me  go  and  lie  in  the  sunlight !" 

"  Not  to-day,  my  darling,  wait  another  day ;  perhaps 
the  warm  winds  will  come.  Willie,  dear  child,  it  would 
make  you  ill,  you  must  not  go." 

"  You  say  so  every  day,  mother,"  Willie  said,  sadly, 
"  and  my  head  is  aching  so  with  staying  in  the  house." 

And  at  last,  he  praying  so  much  for  it,  one  day  they 
took  him  out.  It  was  a  very  sunny  day,  with  scarcely 
a  ebud  in  the  bright,  blue  sky;  and  Bertha  and  Gabri 
elle  made  a  couch  for  him  in  a  warm,  sheltered  corner, 
and  laid  him  on  it.  Poor  child,  he  was  so  glad  to  feel 


29  I  THE    DYING    CHILD. 

himself  in  the  open  air  again.  It  made  him  so  happy, 
that  he  laughed  and  talked  as  he  had  not  done  for 
months  before ;  lying  with  his  mother's  hand  in  hib, 
supported  in  her  arms,  she  kneeling  so  lovingly  beside 
him.  listening  with  a  strange,  passionate  mingling  of 
joy  and  misery  to  the  feeble  but  merry  little  voice  that, 
scarcely  ever  ceasing,  talked  to  her. 

Poor  Gabrielle,  it  seemed  to  her  such  a  fearful  mock 
ery  of  the  happiness  that  she  knew  could  never  be  hers 
any  more  for  ever ;  but,  forcing  back  her  grief  upon  her 
own  sad  heart,  she  laughed  and  talked  gayly  with  him, 
showing  by  no  sign  how  sorrowful  she  was. 

"Mother,  mother!"  he  cried,  suddenly  clapping  his 
little,  wasted  hands,  "  I  see  a  violet — a  pure  white  vio 
let,  in  the  dark  leaves  there.  Oh,  fetch  it  to  me  !  It's 
the  first  spring  flower.  The  very  first  violet  of  all ! 
Oh,  mother,  dear,  I  love  them — the  little,  sweet-smelling 
flowers !" 

"Your  eyes  are  quicker  than  mine,  Willie;  I  shouldn't 
have  seen  it,  it  is  such  a  little  thing.  There  it  is,  dear 
boy.  I  wish  there  were  more  for  you." 

"Ah,  they  will  soon  come,  now !  I  am  so  glad  I  have 
seen  the  first.  Mother,  do  you  remember  how  I  used  to 
gather  them  at  home,  and  bring  them  to  papa  when  ho 
was  ill?  He  liked  them,  too — just  as  I  do  now." 

"  I  remember  it  well,  dear,"  Gabrielle  answered, 
softly. 

"  How  long  ago  that  time  seems  now  !"  Willie  said 
then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  he  asked,  a  little  sadly 
"  Mother,  what  makes  me  so  different  now  from  what  I 
used  to  be  ?     I  was  so  strong  and  well  once,  and  could 


THE   DYING   CHILD.  295 

run  about  the  whole  day  long ;  mother,  dear,  when  shall 
I  run  about  again  ?" 

"  You  are  very  weak,  dear  child,  just  now.  We 
mustn't  talk  of  running  about  for  a  little  time  to  come." 

"  No,  not  for  a  little  time :  but  when  do  you  think, 
mother?"  The  little  voice  trembled  suddenly:  "  I  feel 
sometimes  so  weak — so  weak,  as  if  I  never  could  get 
strong  again." 

Hush,  Gabrielle  !  Press  back  that  bitter  sob  into  thy 
sorrowful  heart,  lest  the  dying  child  hear  it ! 

"  Do  not  fear,  my  darling,  do  not  fear.  You  will  be 
quite  well  very  soon,  now." 

He  looked  into  her  tearful  eye,  as  she  tried  to  smile 
on  him,  with  a  strange,  unchildlike  look,  as  if  he  partly 
guessed  the  meaning  in  her  words,  but  did  not  answer 
her,  nor  could  she  speak  again,  just  then. 

"  Mother,  sing  to  me,"  he  said,  "  sing  one  of  the  old 
songs  I  used  to  love.  I  haven't  heard  you  sing  for — oh, 
BO  long  !" 

Pressing  her  hand  upon  her  bosom,  to  still  her  heart's 
unquiet  beating,  Gabrielle  tried  to  sing  one  of  the  old 
childish  songs  with  which,  in  days  long  past,  she  had 
been  wont  to  nurse  her  child  asleep.  The  long  silent 
voice — silent  here  so  many  years — awoke  again,  ringing 
through  the  still  air  with  all  its  former  sweetness.  Though 
fainter  than  it  was  of  old,  Bertha  heard  it  moving 
through  the  house :  and  came  to  the  open  window  to 
stand  there  and  listen,  smiling  to  herself  to  think  that 
Gabrielle  could  sing  again,  and  half  weeping  at  some 
other  thoughts  which  the  long-unheard  voice  recalled  to 
her. 


21)6  THE    DYING    CHILD. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  like  that !"  Willie  murmured,  softly, 
at*  the  song  died  away.  "  It's  like  long  ago  to  hear  you 
«ng." 

They  looked  into  one  another's  eyes,  both  filling  fast 
with  tears ;  then  Willie,  with  childish  sympathy,  though 
knowing  little  why  she  grieved,  laid  his  arm  around  her 
neck,  trying  with  his  feeble  strength  to  draw  her  towards 
him.  She  bent  forward  to  kiss  him  ;  then  hid  her  face 
upon  his  neck,  that  he  might  not  see  how  bitterly  she 
wept,  and  he,  stroking  her  soft  hair  with  his  little  hand, 
murmured  the  while  some  gentle  words  that  only  made 
her  tears  flow  faster.  So  they  lay — she  growing  calmer, 
presently — for  a  long  while. 

"  Now,  darling,  you  have  stayed  here  long  enough," 
Oabrielle  said,  at  last;  "you  must  let  me  carry  you  into 
the  house  again." 

"  Must  I  go  so  soon,  mother  ?  See  how  bright  the 
sun  is  still." 

"  But  see,  too,  how  long  and  deep  the  shadows  are 
getting,  Willie.  No,  my  dear  one,  you  must  come  in, 
now." 

"  Mother,  dear,  I  am  so  happy,  to-day — so  happy, 
and  so  much  better  than  I  have  been  for  a  long  time, 
and  I  know  it  is  only  because  you  let  me  come  out  here, 
and  lie  in  the  sunlight.  You  will  let  me  come  again — 
every  day,  dear  mother?" 

How  could  she  refuse  the  pleading  voice  its  iast  re 
quest  ?  How  could  she  look  upon  the  little  shrunken 
figure,  upon  the  little  face,  with  its  beseeching,  gentle 
eyes,  and  deny  him  what  he  asked — that  she  might  keep 
him  tc  herself  a  few  short  days  longer  ? 


THE   I/TING    CHILD.  29? 

"  You  shall  come,  my  darling,  if  it  makes  you  so 
happy,"  she  said,  very  softly;  then  she  took  him  in  her 
arms,  and  bore  him  to  the  house,  kissing  him  with  a  wild 
passion  that  she  could  not  hide. 

And  so,  for  two  or  three  weeks,  in  the  bright,  sunny 
morning,  Willie  was  always  laid  on  his  couch,  in  the  shel 
tered  corner,  near  the  elm-tree  ;  but  though  he  was  very 
happy,  lying  there,  and  would  often  talk  gayly  of  the 
time  when  he  should  be  well  again,  he  never  got  strong 
any  more. 

Day  by  day  Gabrielle  watched  him,  knowing  that  the 
end  was  coming  very  near;  but,  with  her  strong  mo 
ther's  love,  hiding  her  sorrow  from  him.  She  never  told 
him  that  he  was  dying ;  but  sometimes  they  spoke  toge 
ther  of  death,  and  often — for  he  liked  to  hear  it — she 
would  sing  sweet  hymns  to  him,  that  told  of  the  heaven 
he  was  so  soon  going  to. 

For  two  or  three  weeks  it  went  on  thus,  and  then  the 
last  day  came.  He  had  been  suffering  very  much  with 
the  terrible  cough,  each  paroxysm  of  which  shook  the 
wasted  frame  with  a  pain  that  pierced  to  Gabrielle's 
heart :  and  all  day  he  had  had  no  rest.  It  was  a  day 
in  May — a  soft,  warm  day.  But  the  couch  beneath  the 
trees  was  empty.  He  was  too  weak  even  to  be  carried 
there,  but  lay  restlessly  turning  on  his  little  bed,  through 
the  long  hours,  showing,  by  his  burning  cheek,  and  bright 
but  heavy  eye,  how  ill  and  full  of  pain  he  was.  And 
by  his  side,  as  ever,  Gabrielle  knelt,  soothing  him  with 
tender  words ;  bathing  the  little  hands,  and  moistening 
the  lips ;  bending  over  him,  and  gazing  on  him  with  all  her 
passionate  love  beaming  in  her  tearful  eye.  But  she 


298  THE   DYING   CHILD. 

was  wonderfully  calm — watching,  like  a  gentle  angel, 
over  hirn. 

Through  the  long  day,  and  far  into  the  night,  and  still 
no  rest  or  ease.  Gabrielle  never  moved  from  beside 
him ;  she  could  feel  no  fatigue ;  her  sorrow  seemed  to 
bear  her  up  with  a  strange  strength.  At  last,  he  was 
so  weak  that  he  could  not  raise  his  head  from  the  pillow. 

He  lay  very  still,  with  his  mother's  hand  in  his ;  the 
flush  gradually  passing  away  from  his  cheek,  until  it 
became  quite  pale,  like  marble ;  the  weary  eye  half 
closed. 

"  You  are  not  suffering  much,  my  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  mother,  not  now  !     I  am  so  much  better." 

So  much  better !  How  deep  the  words  went  down 
into  her  heart  ! 

"  I  am  so  sleepy,"  said  the  little,  plaintive  voice, 
again.  "  If  I  go  to  sleep,  wouldn't  you  sleep,  too  ?  You 
must  be  so  tired,  mother !" 

"  See,  my  darling,  I  will  lie  down  here  by  you  ;  let  me 
raise  your  head  a  moment — there — lay  it  upon  me.  Can 
you  sleep  so  ?" 

"  Ah,  yes,  mother ;  that  is  very  good." 

He  was  closing  his  eyes,  when  a  strong  impulse  that 
Gabrielle  could  not  resist,  made  her  arouse  him  for  a 
moment,  for  she  knew  that  he  was  dying. 

"  Willie,  before  you  sleep,  have  you  strength  to  say 
your  evening  prayer  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

Meekly  folding  the  little,  thin,  white  hands,  he  offered 
up  his  simple  thanksgiving ;  then  said  "  Our  Father." 
The  little  voice,  towards  the  end,  was  very  faint  and 


THE   DYING   CHILD.  299 

weak ;  and  as  he  finished,  his  head,  which  he  had  feebly 
tried  to  bend  forward,  fell  back  more  heavily  on  Gabri- 
elle's  bosom." 

"  Good-night,  mother,  dear.     Go  to  sleep." 

"  Good-night,  my  darling.  God  bless  you,  Willie,  my 
child !" 

And  then  they  never  spoke  to  one  another  any  more. 
One  sweet  look  upwards,  to  his  mother's  face,  and  the 
gentle  eyes  closed  for  ever. 

As  he  fell  asleep,  through  the  parted  curtains  the 
morning  light  stole  faintly  in.  Another  day  was  break 
ing  ;  but  before  the  sun  arose  Gabrielle's  child  was  dead. 
Softly  in  his  sleep  the  spirit  had  passed  away.  When 
Bertha  came  in,  after  a  few  hours'  rest  that  she  had 
snatched,  she  found  the  chamber  all  quiet,  and  Gabrielle 
still  holding,  folded  in  her  arms,  the  lifeless  form  that 
had  been  so  very  dear  to  her. 

There  was  no  violent  grief  in  her.  His  death  had 
been  so  peaceful  and  so  holy  that  at  first  she  did  not 
even  shed  tears.  Quite  cairalv  «the  knelt  down  by  his 
side,  when  they  had  laid  him  in  nis  white  dress  on  the 
bed,  and  kissed  his  pale  brow  and  lips,  looking  almost 
reproachfully  on  Bertha,  as,  standing  by  her  side,  she 
sobbed  aloud ;  quite  calmly,  too,  she  let  them  lead  her 
from  the  room;  and,  as  they  bade  her,  she  lay  down 
upon  her  bed,  and  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  to  sleep.  And 
then  in  her  solitude,  in  the  darkened  room,  she  wept 
quite  silently,  stretching  out  her  arms,  and  crying  for 
her  child. 

For  many  years  two  gentle,  quiet  women  lived  alone, 
in  the  little  cottage  in  the  dell;  moving  amongst  the 


800  THE    DYING    CHILD. 

dwellers  in  that  country  village  like  two  ministering 
angels  ;  nursing  the  sick,  comforting  the  sorrowful,  help 
ing  the  needy,  soothing  many  a  death-bed  with  their 
gentle,  holy  words,  spreading  peace  around  them  where 
soever  their  footsteps  went.  And  often,  in  the  summer 
evening,  one  of  them,  the  youngest  and  most  beautiful, 
would  wend  her  quiet  way  to  the  old  churchyard  ;  and 
there,  in  a  green,  sunny  spot,  would  calmly  sir  and  work 
for  hours,  while  the  lime-trees  waved  their  leaves  above 
her,  and  the  sunlight  shining  through  them,  danced  and 
sparkled  on  a  little  grave. 


tfift   11*. 


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405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

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PS 

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A76o 


Ur 


